Category Archives: Read’in and Writ’in

During one of my classes at the residency (a class consisting of all 4^th term students getting ready to graduate) someone commented that they were sure looking forward to a break when school is finished. While we have a four week break between semesters, most of us spend it reading material for the next residency and/or working on submissions for the workshop. In effect, we don’t ever get a break for the two years we are working on this master’s degree, and it becomes a bit daunting. But this time, we didn’t seem to have as much preparatory work for the new term, and this opened a conversation about how nice it’s been to be afforded a mental break. Several people talked about how great it was reading a book or two that was not mandatory reading.

I commented that I had spent Christmas vacation reading magazines. 

This was met with laughter and someone said, “So, you turned into a vegetable when you finally had the chance, did you?”

My knee jerk reaction was, well aren’t you all sudo-sophisticated snobs calling me a vegetable because of my reading choicse. I have a thin defensive skin regarding my intellect, due to years of feeling like a dumb-dancer. But my actual (more fair) response was, “I wasn’t exactly reading Cosmopolitan, you know. There are some amazing magazines out there, which fuel your mind. Yes, I read magazines. Plenty. I’ve yet to read a literary book that can give you the broad spectrum and the insight of good old fashion information, and there are some incredible writers on staff at some of the more interesting magazines too.”

Then, my friends backpedaled and said, “Well, I guess there are some magazines out there worth a dose of time. We thought you meant dumb ones, like fashion magazines.”

My class mates are good, talented, smart people, and I know they didn’t mean to offend. But they do have strong feelings about anything they consider commercial garbage and I don’t entirely agree with them.

Nevertheless, I said, “I read fashion magazines too. Shoot me.”

What the heck, I’m not ashamed of who I am. (And deep down, I have confidence that I will do more with writing than most of those closet-Cosmo-reading literary aficionados just by nature of my own determination. And I am not intimidated by art. I don’t have to pretend to be a purist regarding literary sensibilities. I can have a deep understanding of literary merit and enjoy commercial material too. 

Anyway, the fact is, I do read magazines. Too many, in fact. I subscribe to so many magazines that the postmaster at my P.O. Box (Vicki) has put me in first position on the waiting list for a super-sized box. My regular sized box is always jammed full of magazines. I also receive tons of books, because I now purchase everything on-line because there is no bookstore within an hour of our home. 

The other day, Vicki said, “I sure hope you like reading, because I’ve never seen someone receive more book packages.” I explained that I was in a master’s program and I needed a lot of books for school.

“It’s amazing you can see straight,” she said.

Ha, she should know I’ve always believed reading is the reason I see straight at all.

For example, I spent this morning reading my very favorite magazine of all time. Ode. This magazine is marketed as a periodical “for intelligent optimists”. I don’t know if I qualify, but I think I am somewhat closer to being one, thanks to the enlightened articles in this publication. All the pieces are short, based on elements that influence our world, yet with a positive bent, as if the editor decided long ago not to simply focus on problems, but to share information about all the solutions people are working on to overcome the world’s issues. I love this. Reading Ode, I learn who won the noble peace prize and why, and what inventions are on the brink of discovery to help our environment. I learn about progressive cultural exchanges, and new perceptions in philosophy, religion and politics. I read inspirational articles about people who impact the world in positive ways. It’s a down to earth magazine that doesn’t see everything through rose-colored glasses, but does discuss intelligent solutions to the things plaguing us today. Like the heading on the cover says, it is intelligent and optimistic.

I lay in bed reading Ode and every few minutes I’ll share some snippet of information I find fascinating with my husband, who usually just mumbles, “Wow, that’s nice dear.” I leave it around for him, but he has yet to read it. 

This month, there was a short one-page article on a new light bulb invented that lasts 35 years and uses 90% less electricity. Talk about a solution to our energy crisis! But the bulb costs 38 bucks. Over the lifetime of use, that still saves tons of money, and iit’s a way to pay heed to our environmental problems. But anything that isn’t cost efficient in the short term is often pushed aside, so the article discusses ways to change people’s attitude to accept this small change for a greater long-term benefit. Now, this may sound boring to you, but I read it and it swirls around in my mind for hours. I’ll be feeding the horses, thinking of light bulbs – the ones I use, the ones I now want to use. It stimulates my mind in great ways (like a lightbulb going off over my head, so to speak), so in the end, I think about more than just my routine of feeding horses.

I also read about a man with amazing, innovative management techniques that are the opposite of those traditionally incorporated today. He lets employees set their own hours, their own pay, and the entire company is set up as a democracy. And this company made 212 million last year. He states, “When people act like animals in a cage, I believe it’s not the people. It’s the cage.” Fascinating. Made me start thinking about what worked and didn’t work when I had my own company. Next thing you knew, I’d spent the afternoon thinking of ways I might have done things better. (Sigh) Next time?

Anyway, I wish everyone I cared about would read this magazine. It would keep us all on the same page. Little sparks of insight offered through easy reads like this stretch the boundaries of a person’s world. It not only feeds us with healthy information but it offers creative ways of thinking about the world. It is a message of positive hope, reminding us every individual can make a difference if they think outside of the box.  This is good for a person’s soul. Good for their health too to look at the world with a positive slant. And it’s fun – an intellectual orgasm, so to speak.

The point is, I don’t believe reading a magazine like Ode is a waste of time. I don’t think I’d  would be better served by reading one more book by Faulkner or Alice Munro instead. I think literary books are important, but people need a variety of input to be well-rounded individuals – and we need eclectic data to ignite our brains.

I used to preach this to my students when I could. I’ve always believed that the only way you can ever be a great artist is to be a great person first. I had issues with art obsessive students who lived in a dance vacuum. I’d say, “It is all well and good that you master your craft and can produce art amazingly well, which was accomplished by your tunnel vision determination – an admirable thing. But art is more than technique, and if you have nothing to say, no greater truth, your talent is worthless. Art reflects life. It is a vehicle of communication for human beings. What the hell are you gonna create a dance about, if you don’t understand anything but dance? A dance about dance is just movement, so shallow it simply won’t fly.”  (Competition fluff) 

The truth is, great composures, great choreographers, great writers, great artists of any kind, usually are recognized because of the substance behind their work. They create works based on social commentary – history, religion, politics, culture, etc. That is what draws an audience, because it moves them at the core of their being. People don’t hail art because it is “pretty”. Take a look at the greatest works of all time (in dance too). You can bet those company pieces that withstood the test of time are those by Graham or Twarp that said something about the earth – dances that have meaning. Pretty dances are a dime a dozen. The dances that make a statement last. And to make a statement, you must have an intelligent understanding of the world. 

I once was having dinner with a student/teacher from FLEX on a dinner break at a competition we were having. We had escaped for well-needed break from the madness. I asked this friend what they wanted out of life. She answered, “I just want to dance at FLEX forever.”

“Yeah, that’s good, but what else? Seriously. Everyone has dreams and aspirations. Working at FLEX is lovely and everyone should do what they love for a living, but there must be other things you desire deep down. Places you want to see or things you would love to accomplish. For instance, you may want to walk across Ireland to see the home of your ancestors, or write poetry just for yourself, or support the rights of squirrels or something. Everyone has a dream. What do you want out of life that will give your world meaning?”

She narrowed her eyes and said, “Not everyone has big dreams, and there is nothing wrong with me because I don’t want anything more than working at FLEX. Not everyone wants to write books. What is wrong with YOU that you can’t be happy with what you have.”

Later, my husband admonished me for “attacking” our friend. He said I make others feel bad for living a simple existence. “Not everyone is as complex as you,” he said, ( and this was not said as a compliment.)

I said, “I wasn’t attacking her! I was trying to help her think beyond the cage she is creating for herself. She is young, and she needs to be reminded that the world is a damn interesting place. I was hoping our conversation would lead her to realize there were things she wanted that would enhance her life, and I’d like to brainstorm to help her realize her dreams. I’m not saying she needs another job. I’m saying that life is more than work. I believe in encouraging others to expand their horizons. Besides which, can we ever talk to anyone about something other than dance? We’d just sat through 8 hours of competition and had four more to go. Was it so wrong to want a mental break and discuss something else? Don’t you get sick of every conversation being about the dance world?”

“These people don’t care about anything but dance. And they don’t want YOU to care about anything else either. It threatens and confuses them.  Did it ever occur to you that your incessant questions come across as if you don’t think people are good enough as they are. It’s as if you are testing them to see if they have a decent thought in their head . . . and sometimes, they don’t.” he said. “No reason to point that out.”

I certainly didn’t (and never do) mean it that way when I ask questions. But I am curious about what makes a person tick. And honestly, for all that I love dance, I think carving a life around only that leads to a person becoming a very shallow individual. Considering I genuinely care about my dancers, this creates a conflict. I want to introduce them to the grandeur of dance, but remind them that it should enhance other elements of life, not smother you or make you one dimensional. I hate to think that in order to dance, a person must sacrifice all the other fascinating elements the world has to offer. And face it, we get older. What is left when dance is gone if you didn’t develop yourself as a person along the way? (This particular senario happens to be what my thesis book is about.)

For the record I want to point out that later, my husband apologized for attacking me when he accused me of attacking her. This all happened at a time when I was first struggling with frustration regarding the narrow perspective of our lives (which ultimately grew and lead us to sell our business). My growing interest in the world beyond dance was unexpected, and a bit threatening back then. But later, more talks like this and confessions regarding the lack of meaning in our lives, lead to discovering we had mutual frustrations. We both harbored aspirations beyond the routine of building our school. And a lot of what we did with our lives was out of habit and clinging to what was familiar. It is easy to stick with something you are good at, but that doesn’t necessary promote personal growth.   Anyway, his angry reaction to me that day wasn’t about that conversation at all, but other things going on in our life, and in the end, he admitted he shared the same feelings as I about a narrow mindset. And he did not really hate the way I ask questions of people, because it usually made for fun conversation. Both important revelations.

In all fairness, I admit I ask too many questions of people. I guess I cross the boundary of social comfort when I venture into more intimate areas of a person’s mind. But heck, I find it boring to talk of weather or all those appropriate, surface subjects –it’s not real talking at all. I want to know where a person would live if they could live anywhere. What kind of work they would do if they could do anything. I am curious to hear what they went to college for, and why their career paths changed. I want to know how couples met, and what their weddings were like. I wonder if they ever played an instrument, and if they read books (and which ones they read). Are they religious? Vegetarians? A fan of Aerosmith?

My daughter warns her friends and boyfriends about me. She says, “Be prepared. My mother will interrogate you.”

I hate this. I DO NOT interrogate people. But I do ask them questions. If I ever fail to get into a good conversation with one of her new friends, someone she cares about that she has brought home to meet the parents, she then says, “What’s wrong. Don’t you like him? You didn’t ask anything about him? He was ready for you.”  Now, she’s offended that I didn’t find out some meaty information (which she then hopes I’ll share.) Geez – I can’t win.

I used to talk to Mark’s dad at holiday gatherings, and later I’d comment on things I learned. Mark would look at me strangely and say, “Hell, I never knew that. I guess don’t know anything about that man.”

“Well, you should have just asked”, I’d say – but in this case, I must admit, that quiet Scottish man was a tough nut to crack and I worked really hard at it – it was a personal challenge. But the point is, I find it sad that we can spend lots of time with people and never really know them. The best way to like someone is to know them. Then you put all your prejudiced assumptions aside.

When we had FLEX, there was a particular group of involved parents that I very much liked. I was always trying to learn more about them, but it was hard. Their kids were close friends with my kids, so we would gather at competitions or I would have them over to my home on Halloween (for my obsessive pumpkin buffet) and I’d try to pump information. I once asked a mom what she and her husband hoped to do when they retired – what secret ambition they had for their life. She shared an interesting picture of her ideal future, then blushed and said, “Why are you asking me this?” As if I must have some ulterior motive for being interested in her as a person. Then, she shut down – distrusting that I could have a sincere interest in anything other than her kid’s dance career, I guess. Big disappointment. I never forgot it.

We’d be sitting around after a competition and I’d ask women where their husbands were and what they did, and why I never got a chance to meet them. And they would always answer politely, but generically, then turn the subject back to dance and the kids and what choreography I might be planning for next year. So I’d ask about their work. Their hobbies. Again, I would get short, generic answers and this would be followed by a dance comment to get us back on track in the comfortable dance zone.

Mark was right, no one wanted me interested in anything but dance. I was neatly packaged into this dance guru role and everyone was most comfortable with me there. When I ventured to any subject other than dance education, my comments were met with skepticism, as if I must be trying to harvest information for some end, as if knowing their inner selves would give me fuel to gossip or something. Or maybe it was just that they didn’t like to see me distracted from their kid’s interests. Or maybe they simply didn’t want a friendship.

Let me point out that I loved their children. Really adored them. And I loved being their dance teacher and leading them into the world of the arts. I felt my job was significant – enriching the lives of young people and helping character development. And face it, I can talk dance for hours. It’s my number one subject. Try me. But the fact is,  these kids are twelve. I’m forty-seven. They are important young people to me, but they are students, not my friends. I always believed the true friends I’d find would be among those parents who supported their kid’s interest in the arts. I assumed we had similar core beliefs.  These were women with marriages, devotion to their kids, careers, personal interests, and most had a hearty sense of humor. We had a lot in common. But I was not allowed to be privy to who they really were. I was just the hired dance guns.

One time Mark said, “I don’t think they know who they are, Ginny. Sometimes I think they define their lives by their kids. That is all they talk about because that is all there is. You don’t define yourself by your children, so the truth is, you really don’t have much in common with them. ” But I couldn’t believe it. I thought it had to be something else. Maybe they worried that if they dared answered a question about their own lives, and the answer didn’t sit me, I’d put their kid in the back line or something. Right. 

I swear, I’m the only person I know who was swamped with people every hour of the day, yet who was so lonely she found herself talking back to the books she read just to escape the dance cell that she’d been sentenced to. Hello? Is there anybody out there? If I see one more sequin I’m going to scream!

Amazing that as dance teachers, we were always focusing on things like balance, but there was no balance in the process for us.

Ah well. It’s history now.

After we sold FLEX, I had dinner with a few of those parents I always thought I might have enjoyed if only I had an opportunity to know them as people. Most of the others had long since turned on us the moment they decided we were no longer useful regarding their child’s dance education. In fact, true to the theory, they had no interest in any kind of relationship now because we ventured beyond the confines of their dance interests. They even took pride, boasted, of how they wouldn’t give us the time of day. Punishment for us? Whatever. We broke that unspoken rule- we were supposed to remain in that dance guru place where we belonged. Permanently.  It was our role in life, and when we left, everyone was disappointed and angry. We were not the heroes they thought we were. We had let them down. We were horrible, selfish people who obviously didn’t care about “the kids” like they thought, or we wouldn’t have sold the school.

Anyway, at that dinner, I finally got a chance to talk to these parents who dared remain friends, just for the sake of past good times, and appreciation for our years of service. We didn’t just talk about the kid’s dance education, because some of them didn’t dance anymore. Some of them still danced at FLEX, but since I didn’t own it, discussing their dance education was sort of fruitless. Some of their kids even had begun dancing elsewhere. And all of this was OK. I was interested in their choices, and I gave them my two cents on the big picture, but beyond that, we eventually were able to move on to other subjects.

With the interests of the kids shortly exhausted, I began to learn who these adults actually are. I learned that one couple used to weave baskets and do stained glass. I learned another had a website featuring her artwork – beautiful vintage cards. She also enters (and wins) writing contests. Who knew? We talked and laughed about how they met their spouses and they shared funny things that happened on vacations, or when their kids were born. We laughed about old FLEX memories too and talked honestly about the kind of impression I gave others. Some of it was admirable, some of it wasn’t. Much of it was off the mark regarding what I actually felt or thought, and it was interesting (if not a bit sad) to see how people got the wrong impression of the Hendry’s due to a lack of any real talking.

I sat there, watching these familiar faces over my wine (Mark wasn’t with me that day), thinking how sad it was that I never had these kinds of conversations before. I would have been happier as the owner of FLEX had I had some non-dance related adult interaction. I would have probably been more effective in teaching their children too, because with honest friendship, you can help others see through all the dance bullshit. Anyway, I enjoyed the meal and I left thinking these people were now, at long last, real to me – individuals I could admire. They didn’t seem like obsessive dance nuts who had such a skewed sense of life priority (which honestly, it felt like people had considering we only saw that little-legue dance aggression side of them). Now I saw these dance parents as interesting, warm, quirky people who are defined by so much more than being parents of kids who dance. I mourn those potential friends we lost in our transition, those that couldn’t have a glass of wine with me because I sold the school, but I believe we gained something too. A new perspective on the people we spent years hanging around with. Some would have been friends all along had we found a way. Others never were. Interesting.  

I am so on a tangent!

Where was I?

Oh yea, if my schoolmates are right and magazines turn your brain into a vegetable, then I’m not a radish. I’m a whole faloot’in vegetable garden. These are the magazines I actually subscribe to. I read most all of them, some I pour over and read every word, others I glance out just to see if there is anything interesting inside. The titles are so varied, you could say I am a Reading Sybil.

Health & Fitness: Runner’s World, Shape, Fitness, Health, Yoga Journal. A Journeys (Appalachian Trail mag.) Backpacker

Human Interest: Ode, National Geographic, People, American Heritage, the Advocate

Cooking: Cooking Light, Fine Cooking, Taste of Home, Light and Tasty, Bon Appetite, Vegetarian Times, Food & Wine,

Figuring out what the heck I’m supposed to do with 50 acres: Hobby Farms, Mother Earth News, Grit, Equus, Horse Illustrated,

Special Interests: Poets and Writers, Writers Digest, Writer’s Ask, Writer’s Chronicle, Spin Off, Crochet, Bead and Button, Beads,  Budget Travel, Travel and Leisure (If you can’t go anywhere, you can always read about going)

Women’s (These I keep trying to let go, but they keep wooing me with deals, like a full year for 6-10$ so despite my resolve to par down the list, I usually cave. I read these the least, except for browsing for a few good recipes. Sometimes I think I could write for them though)  Woman’s Day, Redbook, Ladies Home Journal, Family Circle.

Literary Mags (Which I suppose might counteract the mush effects of the above, except that I tend to let them stack up in my “I will read when I graduate” pile. The benefit is sort of counteracted that way.) Missouri Review, Georgia Review, Brick, Rosebud, the Sun.

There are probably others I’m not thinking of or are not in the rack beside me. Eee gad. I’ve just counted for the first time. That is 42 magazine subscriptions! I have to read one and a half mag a day just to keep up. Eesh. I really do gotta par down. And this does not include those magazines I periodically get from organizations, like from the Heifer Corp, United Christian Children’s fund, Angora, Romance Writers, etc…, which I also read.  Then there is the fact that Mark takes up all that room in our mailbox with his three subscriptions to Woodworker, Log home and Men’s fitness. (Just like a man to take up space in a perfectly good PO Box with such nonsense.)

The more I write the more I realize I better go read the glossy print now. Gotta keep up.

Make the day count! Ask someone a question. Listen to the answer. Smile.

I have finally returned from my residency. It was intense, and frankly, I wasn’t much in the mood for “intense” at this stage in the game. But now that it’s over, I am grateful for the entire MFA experience, despite the fact that, at times, it seemed as if I was needlessly submitting myself to heart wrenching and ego destroying torture.

I had a sort of epiphany during the week. Suddenly, everything fell into place. I understood the subtlety of literary writing, and had a better grasp of my own writing nature (both the good and the bad). This clarity put me into a deep, contented calm. For months, I’ve been very frustrated and my mind has been clogged up with questions. I was one of those difficult students that challenged the academic world and the literary approach to writing. I felt as if I was in the wrong place (for me). I hung in there, but with a small dash of skepticism to make the huge serving of humility easier to swallow. Then, the final days of my last residency . . . things changed. 

I don’t know if it was a matter of the right combination of lectures, or the fact that hearing the same truths over and over again in different ways finally allowed my mind to circle the concepts. Mayhap, my slow understanding can be attributed to forth quarter seasoning. I did wonder if every senior suddenly comes away with clarity at this pivotal climax in the program– but in talking to others, I’m guessing some do and some don’t.

Anyway, I went to school thinking I spent a great deal of time and money on an academic education which was nothing more than a needless hike off my path, (and a way to get a piece of paper to support a teaching job, should I ever want one) but I came home feeling as if getting my MFA was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. All the things my mentors have said from the very beginning suddenly rang true. I felt such a deep appreciation for their advice and encouragement. I also felt horrible, chagrined that I didn’t trust them, wasn’t more receptive, and didn’t immediately comprehend the abstract concepts they presented from the beginning. I think the professors, professional writers all (each already having struggled through these layers of understanding themselves) have a very difficult job transferring the knowledge to others. The failure rate must be very high. So many students leave with mediocre writing ability and shallow literary commitments. This isn’t the fault of the instructors, however. They say all the right things with admirable passion and an earnest desire to help beginner writers improve. They love literature, and sincerely want to introduce their students to the glory of writing from a “real place”. But writing students come with this hard to penetrate shield of ego that makes them thick as a rock. How those poor professors keep from bopping us on the head, I’ll never know.  

In my case, I came to realize that what they are trying to teach about writing is unteachable. Writing well is something that only time, reading, grasping, and trial and error can teach you. Developing literary sensibilities is a bit like faith, somewhat intangible, yet it exists in your soul. Exposure seems to be the only way to absorb the essence of what a person needs to know to write well.  

Like so many of the students I talked to, I came to the program expecting to be taught how to write. I thought that entailed learning sentence structure, character arcs, and plot development. I wanted to learn the nuts and bolts of writing. These basic skills are often clearly missing from much of the student’s work, which also shook my confidence in the program. “If the students can’t tell a decent story, who cares how beautiful their language sounds.” I thought. 

But now, I think an MFA program is based on the theory that every student comes with basic storytelling knowledge. If not, they’ll learn it later. Due to all the seminars and classes I took before this program, I was more knowledgeable than most in the storytelling nut and bolts. Odd, that. So many of the students already have a masters in English, or at least a BA in creative writing, poetry, or English. This doesn’t help them master storytelling per say, but it does provide them a strong foundation for higher concepts. I was a different sort of student, lots of real life application skills, but lacking in a strong academic foundation. For example, every student in the program has this vast repertoire of literary reading to draw from. They are all familiar with Carver, Wolfe, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Whitman, and Hemmingway. I’ve only ready a few of these remarkable authors, and that was back in high school or in my one Classical Literature Class in college. Made me feel inadequate in classroom discussions, I’ll tell you. (I now understand why I had trouble being accepted into such a program. I was not what they were looking for, by any means.)

But as is my way, I tried to compensate. I read everything I could these past two years, and bought every book mentioned in a class, even if it was only a brief statement such as, “Did you ever read (fill in the blank)? It was a great example of what we are discussing”. I kept a list of titles in the columns of my notes, then bought every book referred to on Amazon when I got home. Now, I have this huge pile of unread literary masterpieces that I intend to plow through now that my school reading is over. I may have started off behind in this academic race, but I will end up qualified to discuss the great examples of literature (at least my opinion of it) with the best of ’em.

I must now turn my attentions to my thesis manuscript. I’ve rewritten this bugger completely, three times now. It still sucks. But now, I understand why. I’ve written this book with an edgy voice, in a style that borders on chick lit. Commercial.  But the subject matter is very meaningful to me, and handling it in so trite a way makes the entire story ring false. I truly hate my book and my leading character, which happens to be bitter and unlikable, not to mention that she can’t stop saying all these stupid one-liners that make me cringe. I need to dump half the book and rewrite it to show the depth and the confusion of the main character. And I need to stop stereotyping the dancers in the book. I was trying to write a book about dance, but really, this has to be a story about one dancer. There is a huge difference. If this is a book about one dancer and her struggle with aging, it will be poignant and real. If I tell the story well, it will introduce my reader to those elements of dance I wanted to write about too.

So, (sigh) it is back to the drawing board, yet again. I only need 120-150 complete pages for my thesis, due on April 9th. They don’t really want a finished product, they prefer a writing sample as tangible evidence that you’ve developed as a writer. This will be shelved with a zillion other thesis manuscripts, all equally imperfect – they are, after all, only examples of student work. They say your “book” (the one you might sell someday, or share with the world) is something that comes later, long after you have graduated. Trusting that, I will not fret my book being incomplete. I will just do the best I can at this stage in my development. I’ll concentrate on those opening pages. Then, I think I will probably put this novel aside and turn to something else for a while. Sometimes I think this is a book I am not meant to write – or not meant to write now, at least.  But I must attend to it to complete my thesis, like it or not.  Anyway, my book has been an interesting tool of torture, but it’s brought me to a greater understanding of writing as an art.

Funny, what made me a good dance teacher was my understanding of dance as an art, rather than approaching it as an activity of entertainment or a physical mastery of steps and tricks. And the bane of my existence was fighting dancers and their parents to teach the vital element that gives dance artistic merit. My students, due to their youth and their endless exposure to commercial dance venues, saw only the surface design of dance, quickly becoming overconfident in their abilities when they mastered technique. They were always so sure they knew what they needed and wanted and they were forever looking for validation through foolish means. Meanwhile, I went crazy, because they were blind to the deeper understanding I was trying to convey. Very few of our students ever gained a true grasp of the art. Many of our most talented were thwarted in their progress because of ego and/or their parents trying to control the flow of their dance experiences – wanting instant gratification and worthless kudos in the hear and now. I was always thinking long term, wanting them to reach greater heights, which would not only allow them to develop into true artists, but make dance more richly rewarding on a personal level. That kind of gratification beats any ego stroking around. But this kind of seasoning takes time, and can only be achieved with sacrifice. (Sacrifice is not a popular thing with people today.)  It was frustrating. Sad. I wanted so much more for my students than I could teach due to all the obstacles – not the least of which is the spoiled mindset of our contemporary culture today. (For the record, Mark felt the same.)

The kicker is, as a student, I’ve been on the other end of this struggle. I’ve had the same dense mentality in writing that I used to consider ignorance in dance. Go figure. I guess all art forms are the same in central ways. Art is so close to the ego and psyche, we are resistant to growth. We must accept our limits first, and that is painful. Great art is so much more than surface design or skill building. It is not just that you can execute a piece. It is not enough to copy what you see others do. Being an artist is about personal expression, truth, and creation from the gut. It isn’t what you can do on the surface, but what you understand underneath it all, which shades and influences the work, that makes a difference.   

Mark says I’ll be teaching writing before I’m done, and no doubt he is right. I’ll publish a few things, gain the credentials I need to feel qualified , and then, filled with a passion for art, I’ll want to share it with others. That is my way. I’m a natural leader – or a blustering bossy boots, however you want to view it. Either way, when the time comes, I’ll return to the other end of the spectrum, a leader once again in a war against mediocrity. It will be a new battle, but a battle I am familiar with, even so.  Life truly is circular, I guess.

But for now, I am still a student. I am working hard to swallow my frustration and shed my need for ego stroking. I am facing my demons, which involves accepting the limits of my talent and committing myself to facing my weaknesses rather than hiding behind my strengths. It’s hard. Painful. And so many days I just want to quit. Of course, I won’t.

Our guest speaker this term was Andre Debois III. He wrote “The House of Sand and Fog”. You may have seen the movie. He was such an inspiration. Upbeat, funny, and very real. He talked about how difficult the journey of developing your craft can be. And he talked about what an MFA can and can’t do for you. His honesty was insightful. Inspirational. Depressing too, but in a good way.

One of my previous mentors, William Lychack, taught a wonderful seminar called the Fraud Police. He gave us poignant readings that demonstrate that even great authors feel inadequate, questioning their talent and their work. It is a very dark business, this learning to write. Ravages your confidence. Shakes you to the core. His lecture was riveting. I wanted to go shake his hand, thank him, and apologize for being such a tree stump when he was mentoring me. Instead, I simply thanked him for the class. I’m an idiot. Don’t need to explain that to him. Nothing he didn’t already know.  

In Andre’s lecture, he told us about why he became a writer. He described how he felt the first time he wrote a story. He was in college, and had just turned an assignment in to his English teacher. Then, walking home he noticed a single leaf on a tree branch. Every blade of grass. The way the sun glistened off a car roof. It was as if he had abruptly awakened to the world. Everything was in focus. Intense – his emotions, observations.  He felt so very alive. Writing did that for him.

It does that for me too.

I listened to this successful author, not thinking he was lucky or had some amazing gift I shouldn’t dare aspire to. In fact, he didn’t seem any different from me – just further along the difficult writer’s journey. When he talked about how painful writing can be, how alone and heart wrenching it made a person feel at times, I knew I was not alone. My experiences are no different from others who’ve written before me, or from those that will come along after. Pain is a part of progress – a part of developing any artistic gift to a greater potential.

So . . . I will continue to face the discomfort, trusting what my teachers have told me. Determined. Without fear. Without regret. Most importantly, without doubt.

I won’t settle for “adequate” or seek a quick commercial fix – even though my ego longs for some kind of validation. People who do not understand all this will say, “What have you published?” And when I say, “Nothing,” they will smile politely, assuming this is a sign of failure. I’ll know differently.

That is what getting an MFA has done for me.

Today, I finished reading the material to prepare for my final MFA residency. Whew! I must say the material seems far better than what I was reading a year and a half ago when I began. The Lesley University MFA program was just beginning at the time, so I suppose the criteria is getting stronger for acceptance– and those of us who are currently participating are improving too. That is good news for Lesley. And good news for any graduate of the program too. I am grateful I was able to be a part of this fine learning experience, despite the work, ego shattering insights, and the personal stress that came with pursuing this degree. Hats off to the director, Steven Cramer. No one knows better than I that an arts program is only as good as its director.

Today, I got a rejection letter from a literary magazine. I haven’t sent material out to contests or publishers since beginning this MFA, except for a few rare cases. I took a sabbatical from attempts to become established, because I considered this my learning time. But when my non-fiction teacher commented that he thought my piece “Threads of Meaning” was ready for publication, I was inspired. Feeling confident that afternoon, I sent it out to a literary contest – for fun. I think I have two more contest entries floating out there, but I didn’t expect much from the attempt, so I didn’t keep track.

Anyway, today I receive a form rejection from Alligator Juniper, a fine literary magazine published at <ST1Prescott College. At the bottom of the form letter is a handwritten note from the editor. It says”

    “Although we won’t be publishing “Threads of Meaning” it made it into our top twelve. I particularly loved the details of the different dyes on pg 5, the washing of the wool on that same page, and the wonderful detail of spinning wool directly off the rabbit in her lap. Just lovely. Finally, our staff had trouble with certain clichés or puns in the essay. Examples: “. . . wools been pulled over our eyes “(11) and “sheepish”. Best of Luck and we encourage you to submit again next year.” Melanie Bishop, Nonfiction editor.

Now, rather than feel disheartened or disappointed by this rejection, I was thrilled. They receive hundreds of entries to a contest like this, from hundreds of MFA students and aspiring literary writers (published and unpublished). I made top twelve? Amazing. And the editor thought enough of my work to tell me why it didn’t win, and that they still thought it had merit. I have the opportunity now to revise the piece, following their advice, and try again. Or I can ignore their advice and still try again. All I know is my rejections are coming from much better publications, and they are personal. That is progress. I know firsthand that you don’t bother to correct people who have no talent. A teacher or anyone in a position of authority tends to direct energies towards developing artists that they believe show promise. I know this because so many of our dance students used to get offended by corrections, as if that was our way of telling them they didn’t measure up, when in truth, correction were a great compliment. Therefore, I consider today’s rejection a love letter of sorts. We put things in perspective dependant upon life experience, after all.

I did use a few puns in my essay, but I was fully aware of them. I slipped them in for fun – never wanting to take myself too seriously.  I suppose I should take them out, but I will be sorry to do so. Makes the piece less filled with my personality – more sophisticated. Frankly, I strive to make everything I write down to earth and smile inspiring, yet meaningful too. Guess by putting “myself” into the dialogue, it becomes a bit corney. Ah well.

I do not consider myself a literary writer nor do I aspire to be one. I have a good handle on literary writing now, thanks to school. I have great respect for this mode of literature, and my understanding of it will influence me and shade my writing forever. It is like dance. I studied classical ballet and modern with serious intent, but in the end, I remained a jazz dancer. I became a rather sophisticated jazz dancer with a great deal of classical dance knowledge to draw upon, but still, I chose the more commercial venue. And that was the right choice for me. I never felt I was selling out or lacking the serious overtones associated with great art. I do not see art as so neatly defined, and I’ve never been one to fall for the sudo-sophisticated attitude that “pure” artists cling to for authenticity.  

I believe I will do much the same thing with writing as I did with dance – circle the beast fully, then settle where my instinct tells me I belong.  I can’t describe how comfortable I am with that decision, having explored all avenues of literary fiction. It is one thing to be a commercial hack because you do not have literary sensibilities or a foundation in sophisticated technique – but another thing altogether to use this broad base of understanding to write commercial fiction well. This is all theoretical, of course. I don’t know if I will write any better having pursued a formal education or not, but logic tells me it was my path to full development.   Feels that way, at least.

Today I signed up for my first conference in two years. It is conveniently in Atlanta so I’ll just drive in each day. This one is a serious literary conference for people who direct writing programs and run literary magazines, and for writers in MFA programs. A far cry from the romance conventions I began with. It is the AWP Conference (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) They are offering a huge selection of artsy fartsy classes which will stretch my exposure to subject matter. Primarily, I am excited about a few classes that discuss subjects I may consider for my senior seminar class. I am planning to discuss the possibility of a course that focuses on blogs as a path to stream of consciousness writing and how material from blogs can develop into work that is more serious. This may not fly, because my particular thesis doesn’t use blog material at all, and our seminar should be a development of our thesis study. But there is a class at the conference that discusses this Blog/literary growth issue, which may serve as support for it’s literary merit (and a means of research should I decide to go with it).I printed out the 45 page seminar class offerings, highlighting this session to show my mentor.  I’d sure enjoy researching the subject, anyway.  

I am also eyeing classes at the seminar about running a literary magazine and developing writing programs and teaching writing at the community level to disadvantaged groups. This is of particular interest to me. I am a natural teacher, after all, and I have a soft spot for those who need guidance and a leg up. Writing is power. And I’ve thought a lot about how I am going to “give back” to the art I love. Did it in a multitude of ways with dance. Must do it now with writing, ya know. It is a part of my personal commitment to Artistic Karma- a way to show gratitude to the heavens for my opportunities and gifts.    

Anyway, I was a big fat looser in the Alligator Juniper contest, but I feel good about it. And today, I got an idea for the senior thesis seminar I will begin preparing this term. Yippee.

I’m always thankful for small gifts, especially those hidden underneath unattractive wrapping paper.

I am trying to write a blog for you. . . but I am having trouble because I can’t hold my head up at the computer. My forehead keeps thunking down and slamming against the desk. Not because I am tired – but because MY HEAD IS SO BIG!!!!!! Getting bigger by the minute. I just read a response from my professor that has my noggin swollen the size of New Jersey. Usually, when I get a response from one of my professors, I want to crawl under my covers and mope for at least an hour. I get so frustrated and I feel so average when my work is under fire. I mean, I appreciate the wisdom and honesty I receive. But it is a long, difficult road, this learning to write well, and I sometimes feel as if the journey is laid out with gravel and shaved glass, and I am walking the path barefoot. 

Anyway, my blog, “This is How it Happened” was actually a first person essay assignment I sent my non-fiction professor. I thought it had some problems. Mark read it, and thought it could have been stronger too – as if it started to be one kind of essay, but turned into an expository piece about the festival. Hey, when you have a deadline, you send what you have. 

Today, I receive the response. It was rather encouraging, which is something I can use, considering this term I am struggling so hard with my fiction project and the no-nonsense professor in charge of helping me with it.

So, in the interest of bragging and maintaining my “big conceit” image – and in hopes to maintain some semblance of respect from my blog friends who may not trust their own judgment (so they will be impressed by a learnered man’s opinion), I thought I would share my professors note. 

I certainly won’t choke today considering I am going to be patting myself on the back for an hour or two. 
You may say, “Well, it isn’t THAT great. Nice and all, but certainly not worth making such a stink about,” but all things being relative, it means a lot to me.

Here it is:

Hi Ginny,

I actually did take a short walk after we exchanged our Sunday email.

I got a few shots of some leaves floating on the surface of a still

pond, which might be worthy of enlarging some day. Today, I’m

enjoying the peace and quiet after a three day nature/science

overnight with 71 fifth graders, bad food, and moldy cabins.

You’ve outdone yourself again. Your essay is ready for publication.

The opening paragraph of “This is What Happened” got better and

better after I read it a few times. At first I didn’t think it was

strong enough to open an essay, but then I thought about it for a

while, and remembered how hard it is to think of our parents as

children or teenagers. Thus, the opening scene puts us in a mildly

uncomfortable place, momentarily, and that is a good thing. And this,

of course, gets worse where David is stuck in the laundry shoot.

(Seeing how I am mildly claustrophobic, this gave me the shudders…)

You then break the tension with the white space and discuss the

relationship between family antics and storytelling. The next part,

the hysterically funny ransacked apartment, seems to interrupt the

lecture-like format the reader was just getting used to. What would

happen if you kept this part connected to the family antics section

above as demonstration of how stories continued in your generation?

It’s only a thought, because the essay works fine in the order you

have these sections.

Notice how your story unfolds geographically and then comes home

again. First the memories of your father, then your generation and

then the wide world of the storytelling festival. Nevertheless, you

don’t let us readers off too easily. You keep up the tension with

your thinking about the lack of intimacy and the well-rehearsed

performances of the culturally diverse storytellers. (Thank you for

avoiding any hints of patronizing!) The icing on the cake here, is

the fact that the terrific storyteller, drive-in guy, is named Davis.

This magically hearkens back to your father David (just one letter

away), and the circle is going around again, not letting the reader

forget how the essay began. We are no longer uneasy at the distance

among the cultures of the previous ruminations. We’re back to the

familiar. Okay, the essay is culturally biased some would say, but we

white folk have a culture too, which we need to celebrate. The

intimacy of you and your husband under the stars is a great way to

finish off the final thoughts. If you wanted to truly come full

circle, some other anecdote about your father and the milk scene

might be a nice way to tie up the end.

It’s obvious that you have a strength when it comes to understanding

the intricacies and beauty of local folk culture, and I believe this

was one of your goals. You have come a long way since the early dance

piece, and what a journey this has been. I am looking forward to your

next submission already. Anything interesting in the way of food down

there?

I now have to prepare a poetry workshop for my faculty’s professional

development as part of our year-long look at writing genres. With

your permission, I’d like to share this latest essay with them when

we discuss memoir writing later on in the year.

/David R.










So, This is what happened when I sent “This is What Happened” in to be assessed.Yippee.

Ya know, I will be out of school in June, and then I plan to turn all my attentions to doing something 
with my writing aspirations. I am looking forward to returning to writing what I love with more skill and
the dash of confidence I need to tackle the obstacles awaiting me.(Yes, I want to return to writing historicals 
that make you laugh and sigh – so shoot me, I appreciate literary work, but I don’t need all that painful 
reality bogging down my stories. I am a romantic at heart and I aim to celebrate it with my own unique 
messages to the world.) 
I will take you along on the journey, of course.





Now, I am thinking about the next assignment. David asked about food. Is he kidding? Like I couldn’t write about 
food with both hands tied behind my back, hanging upside down and with a fork pointed at my throat. 
Ha. Food and I have been lovers a long time. I will kiss and tell, if that will make a good essay.
    

      When my dad was a teenager, he derived devilish pleasure from vexing his sisters. He would come to the dinner table tossing a football from hand to hand. Dumping the ball onto the couch and swinging his leg over the back of his chair, he’d grab his glass of milk, down the liquid in one huge gulp, then unceremoniously slam the glass down onto the table at the very same moment his butt hit the seat.

    He’d announce, “Hey, how come I didn’t get any milk? My glass is empty and everyone else’s is full.”

    His mother would scold him for his lack of table manners, while his sisters grumbled about his obnoxious humor, because it was their job to refill his milk glass.

     This game only really amused him. His sisters grew increasingly annoyed as he continued to satisfy his thirst for both milk and stirring up trouble with this daily ritual.

     One evening, the girls filled his milk glass with castor oil. Suppressing giggles, they watched him come in with his usual arrogant, playful manner. He swung his leg over the back of the chair and gulped the tainted liquid in one huge swallow. However, this time, when his butt hit the seat, his eyes bulged out and he gagged.

     “What’s wrong, David? Didn’t you didn’t get any milk? We better pour you some more,” his sisters said sweetly.

      It was not as if he could complain that his milk had been tampered with since he knew better than to admit aloud what everyone knew; that he’d started dinner before everyone sat down. He looked to his mother expecting her to be incensed by this unforgivable abuse, but all he received was a suppressed smile.

     “I doubt David wants more milk today, girls,” Mother said.

      From that day on, my dad approached the dinner table with contrite care. He’d cast a leery eye towards his milk glass, waiting for the meal to start before giving it a test sip. He learned his manners that day, and he hasn’t swung a leg over a dining room chair since. 

      I’ve been told this story dozens of times by my aunts and uncles, each repetition regaled with laughter as I’m treated to examples of just what my father’s face looked like when he downed that milk laden with castor oil.

     Each time, my father sheepishly grins and says, “They got me good that time.”

     For there were other times, additional stories, hundreds of them, that told of past events where the four children in his happy family (all born a year apart in the 1920’s) learned about life, love and each other. These adventures defined and enhanced the personality traits that made these children unique individuals within one happy family unit. 

      Thanks to family stories, I know all about how my uncle Howie, the eldest, chased his siblings into a bathroom one day and threatened to break their favorite toys if they didn’t open the door, so he could “get them” for some offense that no one seems to remember exactly.

     Howie’s ominous voice, called out threats, such as, “I now have Mary’s favorite doll, and if that door doesn’t open immediately I’m going to cut her hair right off!”

     Sobbing at the drama of it all, the children decided they had to reach mother, who would take care of their furious brother and give him his due, so they lowered my father, the youngest, down the laundry shoot. They assumed he could slide down into the basement, land in the soft laundry below and run outside to mother, who was hanging clothes in the afternoon sun,  but unfortunately, they didn’t take into account the taper of the laundry shoot. My father promptly got stuck. It took an hour for the children to decide what would be worse – leaving David wedged in the shoot forever, or opening the door where they would have to face the furious Howie, who was now shouting, “I have David’s marble collection now and I’m going to roll it down the stairs if you don’t open the door.” Mercy!

    The story always remains so focused on the emotional upheaval of the children and Howie’s threats that no one really remembers how the ordeal concluded. But knowing my grandmother’s firm hand on the children, I’m guessing, in the end they all got in trouble.   

     I grew up in a family of storytellers, people who were quick to share tales of humor or pathos in an effort to relay to the younger generation the history and colorful antics of the family. The stories had a rich and vibrant nature; even when told over and over again, for they were “real”, starring the people we loved and longed to know better.    

     Seeing my parents as children, making mistakes, learning hard lessons and experiencing the world with more innocence than I would ever attribute to them, (had I not heard it from their own mouths) made me suddenly understand who, what and why they are the kind of people they are today. And knowing them in this way rooted me in a deeper understanding of who I am as well.

    I don’t know if it was intentional, but all those evenings of storytelling gave us (the younger generation) far more than a glimpse of memory or a funny joke to laugh at. It gave us a sense of our heritage, at the same time teaching us family values and attitudes, because a shared sense of ethics was always subtly embedded in each and every amusing adventure that our elders recapped for us.

    There was a reason these tales found a place of honor in their mind, a place where things like the location of car keys can easily forgotten, but the look on my father’s face when he drank castor oil is somehow embedded like a fossil. These events stuck because the hero of the story learned something in the process, something valuable enough to deserve sharing.  My family’s habit of recanting their life lessons taught me not only the wisdom of mistakes, but that life doesn’t need to be taken too seriously, for the best stories (the ones I remember) were always dowsed in humor.    

     It wasn’t long until the younger generation of my family began collecting a wealth of events of their own and naturally, they began adding to the family stories.

    My sister, an airline flight attendant, tells of the day she came home from one of her first trips to find her front door unlocked. Fearing someone had broken in, she went to a neighbor and asked him to check her apartment for intruders.

     He went inside for a few moments, then came out and said, “It’s safe, no one is inside, but I’m afraid we have to call the police. Your apartment has been ransacked! It’s horrible!” 

  My sister pushed the door open and rushed in to find her clothes dumped on the floor everywhere, food tossed about and furniture askew. Her house keys, however, were neatly hanging on a peg, proving she had forgotten to lock the door (again.) What she was too mortified to admit was, the “ransacked” apartment looked exactly how she had left it. (She was the notorious slob of the family). Mortified, she convinced her neighbor that she really didn’t need to call the police, since nothing appeared to be missing.

     She straightened the mess, and avoided her neighbor for months afterwards, hoping she wouldn’t ever have to admit the person who “ransacked” the place was her.  From that day on, my sister professes, she never left her apartment a mess again. In fact, she’s became a very organized, tidy person as result.

     Through this and many other stories, I’ve learned about my sister as someone evolved from the childhood version I experienced firsthand as the younger sibling.  She’s offered me a mental picture of her life as an adult, the people she’s encountered, the places she’s visited, and the adventures she’s stumbled into, so even though her life is far removed from mine, I know her as the adult she is today.

   The tradition of swapping colorful renditions of life is simply natural for children exposed to storytelling from youth. My husband and I both share our life stories with our children. They listen, chuckling or awed, unaware that their moral fiber is being woven through a tapestry of tales told by parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. They are assimilating our history, our heritage, our beliefs and our fondest memories each time they enjoy seemingly purposeless tales that bring a smile to everyone’s face.

      Of course, storytelling is not unique to this family alone. It has been a method of teaching heritage and community for centuries. On the surface, it’s plain good entertainment, but at the same time, storytelling offers up the opportunity to orally pass on tradition, ethics, and wisdom in a way that sustains a listener’s interest and leaves room for interpretation. No fire and brimstone speech can have the profound impact of witnessing a tale passing by with a moral shadow dragging in it’s wake. A story unfolds and people listen, unguarded. Open. We embrace the message because the story is not about us, exactly. And yet, in time, we find most stories are about us, for great stories pivot on undeniable consistencies of human nature.

     Everyone loves stories, as is witnessed by the popularity of books, movies, and TV. You would think the art of oral storytelling would get lost in this jumble of high tech alternatives, yet the simple act of telling a story is embraced by people everyday. Stories are swapped at parties, work and in people’s living rooms. But nowhere is the love of storytelling more evident than at the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, where each October thousands of people gather for three days to hear international storytellers perform.  

      Since we enjoy telling stories ourselves, my husband and I thought it would be fun to see how “professionals” share a tale, so we made arrangements to attend. After a five-hour drive through scenic mountains, we arrived at the small Tennessee town and waited in line at the <ST1Storytelling Center</ST1lace for tickets. Ninety-five dollars for a one-day pass seemed high to us for listening to a few people talk, yet no one seemed to raise an eyebrow as they paid for the opportunity to sit in open-air tents to hear people weave tales about their lives, folklore or fairytales. Couples juggled seat cushions, thermoses and blankets as they poured over a map and schedule, planning which of the seven huge tents, erected around the closed-off historic city limits, to visit first. Over twenty-five artists were featured, though it is only possible to see approximately five in a day. Since we had no clue of what to expect and we were unfamiliar with the popular storytellers of the day, we chose the closest tent. After this, we decided to meander each hour to another tent,  thinking it would be fun to listen to whatever subject matter or storytelling style we stumbled upon. We could always return another year to take in those performers we would miss this time.

     The first artist we heard was a Lakota named Kevin Locke (his Indian name is Tokeya Inajin, meaning “The First to Arise”). He told stories of Indian folklore combined with modern day jokes. Clad in ceremonial dress, he played the Northern Plains flute and performed the complicated hoop dance of his tribe as well, making him seem much more a performance artist than a simple storyteller. We found ourselves laughing, sighing and gasping in amazement throughout the hour as we watched this man share history, tradition and a dash of Indian philosophy in native stories enhanced by music.

     Next, we listened to Sheila Kay Adams who shared stories from the small mountain community in Western Northern Carolina where she was born. A ballad singer, she also sang us a song. We laughed at the antics of her unassuming country neighbors who boiled life down to basic principals and reacted with monotone acceptance to whatever upheaval country life tossed their way.

      The next speaker we watched was Queen Nur, a woman who told stories of the celebration of life through the African oral tradition, her voice peppered with blues songs and ditties. Her expressions and attitude were thick with black personality, her program focused on stories of hope and desperation from Katrina as she spoke of the courage and heroic actions that took place during the catastrophe within the fellowship of black Americans.

     We listened. Entertained. Music was gracefully incorporated into each telling experience and the artists employed dramatic interpretation to make the stories vivid and powerful. But for all that we were having fun, we did not feel particularly touched by these tales, for the stories all seemed hinged on cultural truths that we could not relate to. They were fascinating stories. Educational. Fun. But somehow, we felt excluded, as if the fact that we were not from the storyteller’s circle of experience reminded us that we were nothing more than an audience. It felt almost as if we were intrusive of the intimacy the storytellers worked to create, as if these were stories meant for other’s ears, for people of their similar background and or cultural heritage. Suddenly, it felt obvious why we had to pay to sit with the crowd to hear these stories. This was a calculated performance rather than a chance for friends to share a poignant truth , which is what storytelling had always been to me.

   I began wondering about the connection of intimacy and storytelling. Perhaps the greatest value in oral storytelling is embodied in the common threads, the relationship, between the teller and the listener.

      While wondering about just this, we wandered to the next tent to see Donald Davis, perhaps the most popular voice at the festival with dozens of CD recordings and impressive awards to his credit.

      Davis appeared to be a simple man in his sixties with a white beard and receding hairline. He wore jeans and he addressed the crowd with such down to earth ease it felt as if we were all squished into his living room to casually talk, rather than jostling for seats in a circus-sized tent. He told a story about his first job as a sixteen-year-old working at the neighborhood drive-in. As he spoke of his demanding boss Daphne (with “daffy knees”) his fellow teenage employees and the life lessons he learned working in a world where the dark hardly camouflages what really goes on, we became riveted. We began chuckling . . . then, laughing out loud. Soon we could barely contain our guffaws. Because his story was not only bizarre and funny, but we’d been there. He spoke of a time and place every middle aged American in the tent knew and loved. We remembered firsthand the flimsy popcorn boxes, throwing trash out our window after the movie was done, and wrestling with the speaker hanging on our window. We knew all about the “unmentionable things” he hinted that were happening in the rear of the parking lot. And who among us hadn’t hidden a friend in the trunk of the car at least once?   

     Davis’s story was his to tell. It was about his particular experience. But it was our story too, for his tale brought us to a time and place we understood and had fond memories of. And he told it with such humor and honesty that we found ourselves laughing at his silly story . . . but also at our own.

      I left this hour thinking that storytelling had many purposes. I savored those stories that taught me about different cultures and life views, but I was most moved by the stories that helped me understand my own life experiences better.

        Later, my husband and I sat under the stars on a blanket by a gentle creek to hear Halloween ghost tales. They were not particularly scary or thought provoking, but they were reminiscent of stories shared at the slumber parties of my past, where the point of the story was just to create goose bumps on everyone’s arms. Snuggling in the cold with hundreds of others, our eyes pinned to the spooky gazebo where the tellers took stage, had a particular appeal all its own. The sheer simplicity of the event created the intimacy I seemed to need to accept that these stories were meant for me. But in the end, the stories were not nearly as memorable as sitting close with someone I cared about. 

        Storytelling can accomplish many things, from sharing history, philosophy and wisdom, to just reminding others that they are not alone in their experiences. They serve as entertainment, education and can be a vehicle for establishing cultural ritual. But I think what is most poignant about storytelling is that it involves a teller and a listener, joining together to preserve a moment in time.

     It is wonderful to read a novel or sit in a theater to see a film, for these are stories that take us outside of ourselves to adventures we might never be exposed of on our own. But nothing can compare to the emotional satisfaction of sitting and looking into another person’s eyes and having them share something deeply personal with you, giving you a chance to reflect upon your own life.

    What can be more poignant than hearing from a person’ own lips. “This is what it happened . . . “   
When it comes directly from another’s mouth, without pretense or self-serving purpose, you believe it.  
And you learn because of it. 

Threads of  Meaning

     When I told my husband I’d signed up for a spinning class, his response was, “It’s about time we started using our gym membership.”

      With a “sheepish” smile, I explained that wasn’t that kind of spinning I meant. I was talking about a class designed to teach people how to make yarn out of raw wool.

     “It is actually a spinning and dying class,” I clarified.

      “Sounds like a painful way to go,” he said.

       I could tell by his smile he was amused by the concept of me sitting, peddling a wheel with a basket of wool in my lap, like one of the Mennonites we paused to watch at historical festivals.

    “Why go to the trouble of spinning when you can buy all kinds of interesting yarn at Wal-Mart?” he asked. 

      Honestly, I couldn’t answer him. I just thought learning how textiles were made would be interesting. Furthermore, I’d asked for (and received) a llama for my birthday and I couldn’t help but think this was the prime opportunity to justify owning what had turned out to be a high maintenance, temperamental, yard ornament.

       I said, “I figure, if I learn to spin, I’ll be able to do something with my llama fiber.”

       “Are you spinning llama fiber in the class?”

       “No. Just sheep’s wool.”

        His eyes narrowed. “I am not buying you a sheep for Christmas”.

        I waved my hand as if to dismiss his threat. He’d acted as if I was insane when I started talking about wanting a llama, but three months later, on my birthday, he proudly presented me a big, fuzzy, camel-like creature with a bow around its wooly neck. Besides which, I was pretty much assuming that, after taking the class, I’d be campaigning for a spinning wheel for Christmas. I did make a mental note to try to make enough yarn for a scarf for him though. I think I too needed to associate some logical purpose to this endeavor. “Why spin?” was a good question.

     A few days later, I entered a barren classroom at the John C. Campbel Folkschool to begin my 6-day spinning seminar. The room was nothing more than a vacant space with eleven chairs arranged in a circle. Sinks and stoves were built-in along the perimeter to define a long narrow strip of kitchen slipping around the corners like a bow around a present. A shelf holding pots and buckets for dying raw materials hovered overhead. Boxes of raw fiber were stacked up on the counters, but there wasn’t a single (intimidating) spinning wheel in sight, an absence that surprised me, yet I was grateful for all the same. Perhaps this would be a theoretical class. Maybe we would be using simple hand spindles. The lack of wheels made me think it was going to be easier than I imagined.

      On a blackboard on the wall behind a long table featuring a mass of unwashed animal fur a quote had been written:  

” Our ability to hold and to live in the memory of the primal creative source is an essential thread that binds together the fabric of all existence.”

 – J. Lambert –

     Could this be the answer to that nagging “why spin?” question? Perhaps, by learning to spin, I would tap into my primal creative source and understand the fabric of my existence. It seemed a tall order for a ball of yarn to deliver, but I was ready to embrace my primitive side to explore the possibilities. Eager to experience the process my ancestors went through to make yarn and thread for sweaters and shawls, I craved a glimpse of life, pre-Wal-Mart. I trusted that even if the adventure didn’t offer me an explanation of the essential thread of my existence, it would certainly make me appreciate the conveniences I enjoy today.     

       My teacher, Margaret Owen, was a 53-year-old woman who’d been spinning since she was seventeen. Bustling with enthusiasm and warmth, her love of all things pertaining to wool was evident from the start. After introductions were made, she showed us a few complex sweaters she’d knitted from hand-spun wool, giving us a bit of history regarding the piece and sharing stories about who taught her the stitches and what materials she used to dye the wool to make the colored pattern. Then, she entertained us with antics of the sheep this particular fiber came from. Suddenly, the sweater seemed far more than a garment made to wrap around shivering shoulders. Now, the sweater had personality, an intimate and meaningful history. Such a thing was bound to chase away a chill just by nature of its significant journey into being. Oh, how I wanted one of my own!

      Margaret put us at ease talking about her early introduction to spinning, her harrowing introduction to raising sheep, and her recent thrilling trip to Scotland (the Outer Hebrides and Orkney) where she explored spinning traditions and knitting techniques. Her philosophy leaned towards a “whatever works for you is best” attitude. She pointed out that wool enthusiasts often fall into two categories; those that believe a good spinner does not veer from tradition, only doing things in ways that will preserve the original art, and those who take artistic liberties and enjoy encompassing new techniques and innovations, leaning towards more experimental textiles.  She was determined to expose us to both tradition and all the other possibilities wool presents. Informed (and with her blessing) we could then sway towards whichever direction suited our personalities.

       But before learning to spin, we needed to learn about fiber, which meant learning about sheep. There are thousands of breeds, each with unique qualities that affect the fur. We discussed what breeds were common in different regions and the elements of diet and lifestyle that resulted in softer or courser wool. After an overview, we concentrated on those sheep with wool we were most likely to work with, such as Rambouillet, Marino, Corriedale, Cotswold, or Lincoln. We taped samples of each into a notebook, creating a personal resource for recognizing wool types in the future. The tighter the kink in the wool, the softer it would be, and in no time we learned to inspect the crimp (perm) and staple (length of wool where it is cut from sheep) to judge what kind of project the fiber would be best suited for.            

       Soon, we were being pelted by wool-associated words, until keeping up with the definitions was like playing a frantic game of scrabble. Hogget is the first shearing of a lamb, tippiness describes the brittle ends of wool, skirting is a way of cutting away courser areas of the full coat (legs, stomach, and neck) to leave only quality wool to work with, kemp is the undesirable hollow fiber that doesn’t take dye. We learned about lambs wool, virgin wool, worsted wool, and woolen yarn. We were introduced to picking, teasing, lubrication of dry fiber, carding, and combing. 

      Once we understood wool, it was time to begin working with it. We gathered around a huge mass of raw fiber that had been recently cut from a sheep and learned to recognize what area of the animal each section was from. Still filled with dust and small twigs, we picked out the debris, then each student washed one pound of it in huge tubs of warm water with shampoo (it is hair, after all) . No agitation or it would mat and turn into felt. No abrupt changes in water temperature or it would break down the fibers. Raw wool was, apparently, a delicate thing, so I approached it gingerly with a touch of anxiety. I plunged my hands into the water, feeling the cotton softness of the raw wool under my manicured nails, imagining my ancestors doing the same, yet vividly aware that their hands would be work-worn and calloused because, while for me such a task is a hobby, for them it was mandatory life’s work. Yet, going through the motions seemed a way of honoring my past, so I worked with a reverence for the process, enjoying even the mess a pound of wool can make on a person’s jeans and sneakers.

     After soaking and rinsing our individual pound of fur, we lay the eleven clumps on screens to dry and began discussing natural dyes. Margaret introduced us to a variety of natural elements we would use to color the wool, pointing us to areas of the garden outside where we were to harvest the flowers. Some of the students took a walk to gather materials. I helped others lift the huge pots off the shelves to begin brewing water that would soon welcome marigolds, madder root, and lichen.

       One jar was filled with ammonia and a piece of copper pipe to create sea foam green. We crushed cochineal bugs to make red, brewed onionskins to make beige, and tore up indigo to make blue. In order to make the wool colorfast, it had to be treated in another bath of five gallons of water with three ounces of alum and one ounce of cream of tarter. The wet, treated wool was then introduced to the dye pots and left to soak.

     Meanwhile, we created a “rainbow” pot where our freshly cleaned, treated, white wool was layered between cheesecloth with handfuls of dye materials dropped in random clumps. Walnuts, marigolds, madder and cochineal lay buried in the folds. We covered our lasagna-like fiber creation with just enough water to saturate it and let the pot sit. Hours later, we lifted beautiful colored wool from the pot, a tie-dyed wonder, arranging it to dry as we “oohed” and “aahed” over surprise pigments and the swirls of color that the positioning of the wool created.

     Out of each dye pot arose a gift from the earth, vibrant colors with depth and wholesomeness that no box of Rit could ever offer. The sheer subtle variety within each pound of wool was like the natural varied shades in a beautiful head of hair, far richer than flat (died) hair, making the natural dyes all the more striking. While I knew I shouldn’t be surprised that these awesome colors were born of simple things growing outside, I still couldn’t help be amazed. Deep down I think I assumed chemicals were required for vibrant color, as if man’s inventions were all to enhance product, when in reality, it is often convenience we seek. 

     With wool now hanging to dry on clotheslines about the room, clumps sitting on screens, or left unwashed on tables, the room looked as if had been taken over by a wooly fern that had grown haywire while we weren’t noticing. We were working in a forest of wool, dripping clumps hanging like moss from the ceilings, dry heaps of fuzz pooling about our feet.  

    It was time to get out the spinning wheels. A large closet in the back of the room stored dozens of spinning wheels for the school. We gathered inside, encouraged to pick whatever style peaked our interest. I chose what appeared to be a traditional style Ashford Spinning wheel, my eye on the big granddaddy wheel that looked like something designed for show rather than functionality.

      Margaret smiled at my gaze and dragged it out, saying “Everyone should try this one too.”

    “Isn’t that going to be hard to work on, considering we are beginners?” I asked, staring with reservation at the three-foot wheel that took up the entire corner of the room.

     “Size doesn’t make a difference,” she said. “It only changes the ratio of twists in the yarn. Bigger is just faster, which means you can make more delicate threads.”

     I sat at my slower model feeling I had made the right choice, but I enjoyed the granddaddy set up nearby all the same, for it served to inspire as it created ambiance.

       We still had work to do before spinning. It was time to card the wool. With two flat brushes sporting hundreds of short prongs, we brushed the raw wool to detangle it, picking out leftover twigs or burs and combining colors for fun. When the fibers were all going in one direction, we lifted the feather light mass onto one card, then rolled it into manageable tubes. While it isn’t necessary to card wool before spinning, prepared wool is easier to work with, resulting in more uniform, delicate yarn. As beginners, we brushed studiously, determined to set ourselves up for success before tackling any actual spinning.

       Finally, it was time to spin. Spinning is actually remarkably simple. It is the act of pulling clumps of fiber into long narrow tubes and adding twist. Wool has tiny scale-like qualities, so it attaches to itself easily to make an ongoing thread that is really just millions of tiny independent “hairs” spun together. A single ply (single, twisted yarn) has a bit of kink in it, and when knitted or woven, it has the potential to distort the shape of your finished project (like sewing off the bias), so you must keep a single ply loose and later, hang it wet, weighted, to “set the twist”. For this reason, most often, people make a two-ply yarn. This involves taking two colors of single twisted yarn and spinning them together in the opposite direction, an act that loosens the twist and evens out the hang. Two-ply is also how bigger, textured yarn is made. Combining two individually spun threads together offers unlimited opportunities to create original color and texture combinations. I found the wealth of creative options engaging, and the moment I blended two simple yarns together into a complex bundle of swirls of color and texture, I was hooked. I was making yarn that no one else in the world would have. Few things in life are that original and I considered those soft chords of wool in my hand precious because of it.

      For the next few days, we spun wool according to our goals, our light or heavy hand, and our eye for color. None of the student’s end products looked alike. The originality of the yarns was as fascinating as the range of personalities in the class.

      It was now clear many of us would continue spinning after the course was finished. Margaret discussed other fibers, such as Mohair and Cashmere (goats), camel, alpaca and llama. She even introduced us to one of her angora rabbits and demonstrated a neat parlor trick of spinning directly off the rabbit sitting calmly in her lap. When I got home that night, I found resources on the internet for yak and musk ox fur. They even make yarn of possum. I wanted to try it all.

    On the last day, our minds saturated with information and our hands smarting from hours of friction running wool between our fingers,  Margaret invited us down the street to her farm to meet her sheep. Here, we saw live samples of corriedale, merino and Shetland sheep, along with her Pyrenees dogs, (who guard the sheep and whose hair can also be harvested for spinning). I found the sheep rather lacking in personality and seeing how much goes into caring for them made me think I would be better off sticking with buying raw fiber for now. (A detail that delighted my husband.) I always have my birthday llama’s wool to add intimacy and significance to future projects, just in case I want to associate personal meaning to a sweater I might make. 

     Wandering around Margaret’s pasture with the other students, I looked at the animals, curious about which one gave me the gift of wool I’d spun that morning. I yearned to stroke the head of sheep that unintentionally brought me so much pleasure. They seemed happy with their lot in life. Sheep do not have to die to offer us this marvelous gift of fiber, a detail I am grateful for.

      That evening, our class culminated in a ceremony, the John C. Campbell folkschool<ST1 showcase, where students in a variety of classes display the creations they’d worked on all week. I admired all sorts of Scottish Heritage crafts, but my eyes kept slipping back to my yarn, tangible proof of my new talents, and I couldn’t help but wonder if everyone was as grateful of their week’s experience as I was.

      Learning to spin introduced me to a new hobby that is both utilitarian and creative, but mostly, it taught me to look at the world differently. An avid lover of history, I often peruse museums to enjoy vintage costumes, furniture and/or rugs. Often these antiques have been preserved for hundreds of years. I know that when I see these pieces now, rich with handmade textiles, I’ll have a new appreciation for the colors and how they’ve survived over the years. I’ll understand how tedious the work must have been to create such beautiful objects and acknowledge how talented the artisans who planned and executed such complex designs must have been. I can’t stop marveling at man’s innovation to extract a rainbow from the earth, his ability to transfer it to wool and spin it into delicate fabrics or useful materials of various feel. And I am filled with respect for the animals that lived hundreds of years ago and the people who tended them, for they worked in harmony to leave behind a legacy of art and ingenuity that defies anything sitting on the shelves of Wal-Mart today. 

       “Why spin?” is a good question, one I have an answer for now.  J. Lambert, whoever that is, said it succinctly.

       “Our ability to hold and to live in the memory of the primal creative source is an essential thread that binds together the fabric of all existence.”

      The way I see it, my life is filled with “things”. Things I need to exist, things I own to be comfortable, and things I’ve collected to assure a life of convenience. Most of these “things” can be acquired at Wal-Mart, but beyond that, I rarely consider their origin.

    “Things” only have the meaning we associate to them. Suddenly, I’ve come to a point where I’ve stopped associating meaning to most everything I own.  I associate the value of a sweater in terms of its cost or if it makes me look slim. I think nothing of tossing away a blanket because the color no longer suits the room. The things cluttering my life have little meaning, making me feel as if the trappings of my life are disposable. Is it any wonder so many people in our society complain about feeling disconnected?

       Learning to spin has taught me history, science, and the story of the textiles that fill my world today.  I now have the ability make things by hand, and I can, and will, associate personal meaning to them by nature of the time and trouble they took to create. But I have a deeper appreciation for the items sitting on the Wal-Mart shelves now, too. In the memory of man’s creative source, our history, I understand and appreciate all that is available to me today.

   The fabric of my existence is composed of much more than the surface implies. It stretches back, long before I was born, all the way to man’s primal discovery of how to use the gifts of the earth in artistic ways. Somewhere along the way, the wool’s been pulled over our eyes -people have forgotten the base origins that lay the foundation for what we have today. Learning to spin has taught me more than how to make yarn. It’s taught me that I must combine the twisted threads of past and present to create a deeply textured life that will maintain shape. This kind of awareness becomes a sweater of substance I can wrap around my shoulders. And it will warm me through all the seasons of my life.

Kathy is learning to read. Mostly, small easy words, but she’s reading, nevertheless. I’m proud of her, and between you and me, I’m proud of myself too. Teaching someone to read is harder than you imagine. Whoever made up the English language and all the dumb rules involved had to be drunk at the time, I swear.

Anyway, she is good at recognizing my flashcards and can read the sentences I type out for her each week. She is doing well on lower-level workbooks too, which are helpful to shake up our routine. But, the other day, I asked her to write some sentences for me and she drew a blank. Even when I suggested she use words that I know she knows, she paused, incapable of pulling the letters out of the back of her mind to match the sounds she was voicing out. I hadn’t realized that teaching someone to read and teaching them to write were two separate things. Oh, I realized it, I guess, yet I didn’t realize how different the two skills are. They are so related, that you just expect one to assimilate the reverse of the skill. Not true. So now, I am putting more emphasis on Kathy’s writing for a while. She has homework of writing sentences for me between each lesson.

In Kathy’s world, everything is big and fat. When asked to make up sentences she writes;

There is a big fat man.

I see a big fat cat.

It is not fun to be bit and fat.

The big, fat boy ran.

I told her, “Um, Kathy, not every sentence you make up has to be about big, fat stuff. Can you think of a sentence that isn’t about a big, fat man?”

She thinks a moment, then says, “That man is not big and fat.”

Ha. Well, at least she has a sense of humor. In that way, we work together very well.

Today, I scoured the town seeking forms for Kathy to fill out. I think it’s pretty ambitious to think she will sit down and read Faulkner one day – the goal is to make her functional in our society. So, I went about gathering job applications, credit card applications, memo pads, magazine subscription cards and change of address forms. I also brought envelopes to our lesson. I had her fill out a few of the easier forms. It was instantly obvious that we will need to work a bit longer before she tackles anything that includes more than name, address and phone.

We discussed how envelopes are addressed. She is vaguely familiar with this because she does receive mail, even if she can’t read it. (She recognizes bills, of course – don’t we all.) I had her address an envelope to herself and told her to expect me to send it to her with an assignment inside. When she gets it, she’ll have to read what to do, than do it. I also had her address one envelope to me, and her homework is to write me a letter. I suppose I’ll hear all about her big fat life in the letter, but that’s OK. What is important is that she keeps practicing, and hopefully, this will make her feel as if she is developing competency.

I also bought her an address book. I showed her how the letters that stick out on the sides are like files, and that you are supposed to put names inside by the first letter of a person’s last name. I had her put my name, address, phone and e-mail in the book. Then, I told her that her homework this month is to fill the book. I want every friend, family member and whomever she encounters, in that book.

Kathy flipped through the pages of that little address book as if it were made of gold. She said, “My mother in law has one of these. I’ve seen one of these books before. It will be neat having one of my own.”

I told her that collecting addresses of her acquaintances will be good practice, and in November, I would have a bigger assignment. I will have her make out Christmas cards to everyone in the book. I’ll supply the cards and stamps. She’ll be in charge of the manpower. She got so excited. Warmed my heart.

I also bought her a small, purse-size planner and showed her how this works. Kathy has dozens of appointments every week. It’s amazing that she can keep them all straight – she lives in fear of getting in trouble if she forgets something important. She has to attend two AA meetings a week, a doctor’s appointment, two lessons with me, a drug test, periodic court dates etc….. Keeping straight is a full time job for someone in her position.  I told her to fill out every obligation she has, and to flip forward to future months to put in birthdays and anything else she can think of.  I explained that just because she thinks she can remember something, like lunch with a friend, she should still write it down, just to get used to the process of taking notes. I want writing to be a part of her everyday life, as it is for you or me.

She smiled and said, “This is really fun.”

Amazing, isn’t it? The things you or I take for granted and consider a pain are considered exciting to someone who has been excluded from everyday participation for a long, long time.

Anyway, my lesson was different today – focused on practical application. I am doing all kinds of mental acrobatics to come up with ways to teach some of the hard spelling rules that I can barely explain, much less break down into sensible systems. I don’t know how elementary school teachers do the job so efficiently. I feel inadequate some days, and worry that Kathy won’t learn as much as she should because she is stuck with me, an untrained amateur, as her guide. But we are scooting forward at a pace that works for us.  

In the meantime, I spend dead time, like when I am driving around town or waiting at a stop light, brainstorm more reading and writing projects for Kathy. Hey, maybe I’ll get her to fill out a tax return. Ha! It will be the only time in the history of mankind someone does that and thinks it’s fun!  

After I posted Kathy’s picture the other day, I thought about my flippant comment about how country people don’t smile. Truthfully, I took six pictures and she scowled in every one. But later, it occurred to me why. You may remember, Kathy has only three teeth. While I am used to this now, I’m sure she is self-conscious about it. I felt horrible when I realized that was probably what was going on. I kept thinking of how I urged her to take a picture with me, and her standing there reluctant as all get-out. No doubt, she was feeling uncomfortable about it, yet she didn’t want to refuse my request. I can be such a stupid dope.  

Well, I bought her an address book and a planner as my unspoken apology for the unspoken offense.

I was looking at the electronic word games, a hand held Leap-pad thing, today at Wal-Mart to. I wonder if she would use it if I bought her one. She might find it fun and spend an hour or two a day testing herself on spelling and sentence structure etc…That might be a great thing.  I didn’t buy it, because at 90.00, which is the cost of set-up, I want to think about it first. I think there are many things in that price range that Kathy could use, and I have to think about whether or not a leap-pad merits the investment. I may want to hold off and spend whatever money I want to allocate to her in another way. But I must confess, I was itching to pick up that machine just to see it if would make my job go any faster. What kills me is that I just got rid of about three such devices when we moved that Neva had outgrown. Drat.

Speaking of which, I have to go pick up Neva.

In order to make a living, Denver has decided to begin a dance program here in Blue Ridge – the need is great and she will do very well with it. So all week, she’s worked on a flyer and kept asking our advice. She has a great deal of preliminary material to work with, considering our history, so she put together a fantastic informational “sales” flyer/brochure describing the classes and her philosophy. She also had a meeting with the Blue Ridge Arts Association where she will be teaching, and asked me to attend. We brainstormed together to set the sessions, pricing, fix the dance room etc.

The assistant director then said she would send something to the paper if Denver would give her some particulars. I told her that wasn’t necessary, that I was planning to write an article about her for the paper. I am a writer now, and no one knows this dance program like I do (since I created it), so I sincerely doubt anyone could do justice to describing this emerging program as I could. I’ve also met the editor and he is expecting some human interest articles from me (I’ve already done the interviews, but been too busy to sit down and plunk out the actually articles.) Turning something in would alleviate my guilt in that area and help my daughter too.

She said fine, but the article had to be in Friday, (the next day) to be published next week. So yesterday, while sitting at Dianne’s house, I sat at the computer and plunked out an article about my daughter.

Funny, but every woman’s ultimate fantasy is to have control over everything her kid says and thinks. For one hour I could do just that. I filled my article with quotes and ideals that I thought would be accurate and beneficial while still trying to capture my daughter’s sentiments.
Later Dianne laughed and said, “I never knew Denver was so eloquent.” Ha.  

I turned the article in with some dance pictures of Denver.

Later, I left a copy for my daughter to read. I assumed she would be thrilled, but she just smiled and said, “It’s funny.”
Funny? Funny ha ha, or funny weird? I asked her what she didn’t like about it.

She shrugged and said, “Has it occurred to you that I have to live up to that now? Gee Mom, I just wanted to make some money.”

I stood there, holding my cell phone in my hand, in a quandary, trying to decide if, in writing that article, I was out of place – even though the director and Denver asked me to do it.

Mark pointed out that I dive into any project with an attitude that it is a full commitment, always shooting for something bigger – not that it has to come about, but that I lay the foundation for greater things to come just in case I become gripped in the passion of the project. But, he pointed out, not everyone lives that way.  I should not put pressure on Denver to excel or create a huge shadow that she has to walk in. I need to let her world unfold without my influence (Of course, I’m thinking, then she shouldn’t ask for my input). . . but I get his point. 

Anyway, I did what I could to help her set up for success in the local dance arena with the best of intentions. And honestly, I meant everything I said in the article. She can do this better than anyone else. . . If she wants.

Here is the article for anyone interested in my emerging journalistic skills. I’m guessing, Denver will be thrilled when she sees it in print. One thing is sure, the people of this town will know “dance” has ventured into the mountains now. Had it been with me, it would venture in with a hobble. But with my daughter, it can leap in with all the enthuasiasm and energy of youth.

DANCING IN THE MOUNTAINS

By Virginia East

 (Had to find a name other than my own since I quoted myself. Ha, how awkward is that?)

     Denver Clark came to Blue Ridge to visit her parents in June, expecting to dance on to New York to continue with her theater studies. However, moved by the lovely attitudes prevalent in our community, she’s decided to do her dancing here for a while.

      Building an alliance with the Blue Ridge Arts Association, Denver is creating a program designed to expand creative awareness through an introduction to dance which includes everything from technical skill to artistic expression. Denver believes dance education involves much more than teaching routines or donning costumes to put on a show. Dance teaches self-discipline, physical awareness, creative expression and physical fitness, while exposing students to art classics and more modern cultural movement at the same time.

     The Blue Ridge Arts Association has earned a fine reputation through programs designed to share visual and Appalachian arts with the community. Denver is excited to expand their offerings to include traditional dance classes and is excited to work in association with a growing, non-profit organization whose heart is, she believes, in the right place.

    “I feel the people involved in the BRAA are open minded and committed to bringing the best of the arts to our community,” Denver says. “And I think it’s wonderful they want to add dance to their roster of arts awareness programs.”

     The BRAA has offered dance classes before, but they were random classes, lacking long-range goals. Now, the facility is working with Denver to design a progressive program that can grow as the organization grows. 

      It seems, no one is better suited to this ambitious goal than Denver. Denver comes from a family of dance educators. Before retiring last year, her parents owned one of the largest dance schools in Southern Florida with over 1200 students and two 10,000-foot state of the art studios. The Hendry’s are the innovators of the renowned KIDDANCE program, producing educational videos and CD’s for dance teachers, a progressive syllabus and an international newsletter of creative dance concepts. Ginny Hendry, Denver’s mother, still travels to teach dance seminars for Dance Master’s of America and affiliated organizations. After retiring last year, she began pursuing a low residency MFA at <ST1laceName w:st=”on”>Lesley</ST1laceName> <ST1laceName w:st=”on”>University</ST1laceName> where she is now writing a novel about dance.

    “Mom is dancing on paper now,” Denver says with a smile. “And my father, Mark Hendry, is still a guest choreographer for schools and regional companies. For all that they are retired, dance remains a huge part of our family’s life.”

     Denver is proud to carry on the family’s tradition of dance education by beginning a program of her own in Blue Ridge. “And my parents are here to consult me and help as needed. I am lucky to have their experience to guide me,” she says.

    Not that her parents believe she will need much help. “Denver has trained all her life. She has participated in competitions, seminars, and all sorts of performances. She has all the tools she needs to be a successful teacher.” Ginny Hendry says. “I am proud to step aside to see what my daughter can do with dance. And I’m thrilled she’s chosen our community as her new home.”  

     Denver plans to offer children’s classes following the KIDDANCE syllabus, a progressive program that teaches dance basics creatively. KIDDANCE was featured in Dance Teacher Now Magazine as one of America’s most innovative approaches to dance education in 1999. The syllabus encourages teachers to introduce basic dance concepts in ways that make learning fun.       

     For example, to teach correct arm placement and spatial awareness, one exercise consists of students wearing socks on their arms and moving under a backlight to create shapes in space. With only arms glowing, the exercise is fun for kids but it also keeps their focus on placement and visual space. Another creative exercise involves “paper bag ballets”. The origin of ballet is pantomime, so once a session, students will don costume pieces to “get into character” and dance out a ballet narrated by the teacher. These short improvisational ballets expose young dance students to the story lines and music of the classics while also encouraging them to emote. Another exercise is a foot mat created by tracing students feet on long rolls of banner paper which is later used as a pattern for an exercise that teaches the difference between turned out or inverted foot positions. “It is all about camouflaging basic principals in joyful exercises,” Denver says. Many other creative methods are incorporated to teach dance concepts, along with more traditional exercises that  teach dance terminology, steps and proper technique.  Collectively, this system leaves children not only learning how to dance, but loving dance.

     “Dance involves endless practice to reinforce technique,” Denver says, “The Kiddance program finds different ways to practice the same thing over and over again so children learn  without getting bored. It is also highly creative which teaches a budding artist that dance is about personal expression, not just steps or routine exercises . The best way to get students to embrace the discipline required for dance is to make them love the art so they want to work hard to excel.”

     The new dance program at the BRAA will be offering classes in eight-week sessions beginning September 5th. Denver feels this term will instill a foundation in movement and hopefully, tweak new dancer’s interest enough to continue throughout the year. “We want the emphasis of these classes to be on exploring movement, not just learning routines or practicing for an end of year recital,” Denver says.

     But that does not mean that she doesn’t’t think performance should be a part of the dance education experience. On the contrary, Denver plans to end each eight-week session with some sort of performance, preferably dancing at community events such as festivals or homes for the elderly. “As a non-profit organization, I think it’s important that the BRAA dance program gives something back to the community. I’m hoping to find lots of avenues for performance which will be non-competitive and rich in the spirit of artistic sharing.”        

    Denver has spent the last two years attending <ST1laceName w:st=”on”>Central</ST1laceName> <ST1laceName w:st=”on”>Florida</ST1laceName> <ST1laceType w:st=”on”>University</ST1laceType> in Orlando in pursuit of a BFA in musical theater. She’s a singer, dancer and actor and she draws from all disciplines to make the dance class engaging.  In addition to creative dance classes for youth, including a Mommy and me parent and child interactive class for ages 2 & 3  and preschool movement classes, she is offering more traditional dance classes in the subjects of ballet, tap and jazz for

elementary and middle school students. She will also offer a hip-hop and musical theater class for teens.

    Beyond traditional dance classes for area youth, Denver hopes to offer specialty classes that will serve the community. For thirteen years in Florida, Denver’s mother taught a group of students with Downs syndrome, not only teaching them dance but also taking them to competitions and performances. She’s written several articles for national dance periodicals on how to teach handicapped students and lectured on the subject at dance conventions. Denver assisted these special needs classes and having been exposed to the unique complications of physical and mental disabilities, hopes to offer a similar class for handicapped individuals in Blue Ridge.

    “Dance is for everyone,” Denver says, “Creative expression is a tonic for the soul, and I think dance helps a person get in touch with their inner selves in the healthiest of ways. I’m hoping, as I learn more about our community’s needs, I’ll be able to contribute something special through arts education. It’s wonderful to be able to do what you love for a living, but even more wonderful to share what you love with others.”

    For information and a schedule contact BRAA at (706) 632-2144. Class size will be limited and registration is ongoing. BRAA recommends interested students reserve a space by signing up early.         

“So, when we have made every effort to understand, we are ready to take upon ourselves the mystery of things; then the most trivial of happenings is touched by wonder, and there may come to us, by grace, a moment of unclouded vision.”–         Helen Luke, Old Age –

     One of my assignments in regards to working on my novel is to write an annotated Bibliography of books on the market that pertain to my subject mater. In my case, I am searching for books on aging artists, retiring dancers and the like. I don’t have to read these books, just know they exist and research them enough to know what is out there in the publishing world. I then must write a short annotation to prove I’m immersed in my theoretical subject.

    Of course, once I began researching books on my novel subject, I couldn’t help but want to read them. Heck, the assignment is founded in logic. It is vital to grasp all you can on the subject you are writing about – for inspiration, revealing truth and to know what competition you might have. No reason to write a book that someone has beaten you to, ya know. I’ve always read history books, obvious vehicles for research, when writing a historical romance, but it wouldn’t occur to me to research those things I think I already know, like what it is like to be an older dancer. Duh.  But I’ve learned that you can always probe deeper into the shadows with a fresh mind (author) to guide you . 

     So, last night I started browsing a book so I could write an annotation today. Dang, if didn’t have to read the entire thing into the wee hours. Good book. Vital. And just as my teacher no doubt knew, it will add depth to what I am working on. I’m sure not all books I research will affect me this way, but a few will. It is worth wading through many to find the pertinent few.

    This is why I love being in this MFA program. It forces me to do more than just write – it forces me to think, to explore deeper messages and to study great examples of literature, which influence my voice. This gives me approaches and tools for writing a better book. At least, in theory.

     So, I just wrote an annotation, and since I think it turned out relevant to several of my recent blogs (one about crows feet, admitting my age, and my noticing details and enjoying a simpler life) I thought I would share it. It isn’t a literary or academic masterpiece. I have to do 24 of these suckers, so there is only so much time I will devote to them, but it tells a bit about me and my project in a backdoor sort of way.

Here goes:   

       Autumn Gospel, Women in the Second Half of Life, by Kathleen Fischer is a book about the spiritual dimensions of a woman’s middle years. The book explores how society views older woman and how these views affect the aging female’s sense of worth, personal attitudes, and state of mind. The dilemmas older women face are portrayed through stories, philosophical theories, cultural examples and biblical quotes, but inspirational examples of these same issues follow to counteract these realities, encouraging a new attitude which will help women age with pride, grace and in the spirit of celebration for their contributions to the world.

     Autumn Gospel gives insight to the mental conflicts women fighting the natural process of aging struggle with, making it a pertinent resource for my book, Diary of a Dancer’s Divorce. Not only does Autumn Gospel authenticate the struggles of Dana, the aging dancer in my novel, but this book offers a deeper look into the many levels of frustration my character is encountering, helping me to explore how and why negativity is associated to aging in a career focused on youthful vigor.

      A central factor in the plot of my novel also happens to be Dana’s journaling (the diary) something, which this author, Kathleen Fisher, recommends all aging women try as a means to heal emotional, hurt.

    She states, “I have observed two things about journaling. It is hard to begin, but once begun, the process develops a creative energy of its own. A woman who came to me for therapy discovered both these truths. She thought it might help her to keep a journal, but she resisted the process, finding numerous things to do with her time instead. Gradually she began making short entries in a notebook. These became longer and she eventually found herself filling whole journals. In the process she discovered the depth and range of her own inner life; creativity previously hidden from her. Her journal-keeping both mirrored her growth process and moved it in new directions.”

    I found this interesting, for I am attempting to use my character’s journaling as a tool for introducing philosophical theory about dance as an art form and how it affects an individual’s human development, while also using it as a vehicle for Dana’s personal growth and understanding of what she is feeling and why. Her journal is significant in helping her evolve and come to terms with her art and her place in it as an older artist – the core focus of the novel. I introduced this element of the novel as something she does at the suggestion of a therapist. Now, I am content that this choice is realistic.

   As a mature woman myself, I found Autumn Gospel a lovely book, inspiring in its message to embrace maturity and enjoy the chance to shed the fear of growing older.  Fischer reminds us that, “A preoccupation with looking young draws energy away from a woman’s inner life and diminishes her attention to other projects.”

     Such a message relieves pressure to fight our self-imposed limits and validates the dreams we dare to harbor as mature adults, such as attempting a new creative endeavor, (in my case writing). In this way, the book serves as a valuable resource for me as an author, not only because it give my central character depth, but because it embodies a message to me as an aspiring writer as well.

    Fischer says, “Human beauty can take startling forms. At present society defines it in terms of the body’s conformity to set norms. However, the most compelling beauty emerges from the depth and texture of a person’s life and spirit, and the face seems to carry it in a special way. Our intense response to such beauty stems from qualities that evoke pleasure, satisfaction and wonder.”  

    With these words ringing in my head, I will attempt to add depth and poignancy to my novel’s main character, both in her appearance, thoughts and deeds. And I will sit at the computer attempting to accomplish this end with a belief that, because I have lived a life that taught me certain wisdoms, it is worth any and all effort to work to communicate this insight on paper.   

-End-

Blah, Blah, blah.

 Between you and me, I’ll say that one quote from the book struck me as memorable.

“Along with discernment, this phase of a transition calls for the simplifying of our lives. Simplicity is a creative response to the awareness of limits. Times of transition force us to trim away the nonessential. The novelist Isabel Allende explains this shift after turning fifty: “I don’t have any time to waste. I don’t have time for gossip or greed or revenge or undirected anger.” She says she is concentrating on the basics, which have to do with love.

Holly cow! I think this is the best example I’ve seen yet to explain what happened to me – the thing that forced me out of the dance studio and into the woods. It wasn’t about dance, or students or stress or money or wanting a donkey. It was about redefining priorities. Love.

Do what you will with that gem.

Now, stop distracting me, Blog Buddy. I have work to do and if I keep talking to you I’ll get in trouble. All play and no work makes Ginny a dull girl (in the MFA zone).

Today, after I worked with Kathy, I was asked to stop by the office. They had a question for me. Turns out, they are wondering if I would take on a new student.

The truth is, I’m too busy for the one I have – teaching someone to read is a big commitment while pursuing a masters and I’m barely able to keep on top of all my work as it is. I should say no. But this case is pretty hard to resist.

The man’s name is Hoyt and he is 63. Testing revealed he doesn’t even recognize the alphabet. Only his name. He went to school up until 2^nd grade, but dropped out because all they had him do was chores. He was expected to lug in the water and carry firewood. Remember, he is 63. 55 years ago in a small town like this one, the schoolhouse was a rustic, one room shed with all ages in it together.  He was appointed the teacher’s lackey, so it turned out, school was too hard for him. (for all the wrong reasons).

Hoyt went on to become a wealthy landowner. In fact, he is a millionaire now with property all over Blue Ridge, in Colorado and in Russia. I guess he began making deals with a handshake. I can’t imagine how he was able to pull off honest business dealings as a totally illiterate adult in our changing world.

Hoyt is renowned for his weakness for beautiful woman. Was always dating a few drop dead gorgeous gals, so they say. Last year he married a beautiful Russian woman that they say looks like a Victoria Secret model. She is 20. She doesn’t speak any English and Hoyt doesn’t speak Russian. He met her while dealing with her family in a land purchase (perhaps the bride was the bonus?)

When the new misses was brought to America she began learning English so she could communicate with her country gent. Now she’s at the Appalachian College learning to read and write. She wants to go to a university here in America.

Recently, she discovered her wealthy husband couldn’t read. She was shocked. She began showing him her phonetics – which were not as hard as he expected, but he forgot them the next day. One thing lead to another and suddenly, she started demanding he learn to read.

Hoyt says he is hoping this beautiful young gal won’t up and run off on him, so he wants to please her. He’ll learn to read if it’s going to be such a big deal to her.

The directors of the program wanted me to know they couldn’t guarantee he would stick out a tutorial program , considering his motivation, but Hoyt did confess he would really love to learn to read the newspaper. That is something. But he believes he is too old to learn – since he hasn’t caught on for a lifetime, perhaps something is wrong with him.

Fascinating.

They believe I be the perfect teacher for him. For one thing, while I’m no 20 year old Victoria Secret carbon copy, I am no old Baptist school marm either, which tends to be the average volunteer in this program.  He might be receptive to me. And since Hoyt is a successful businessman, I can probably relate to him on that level too. He has said he doesn’t want anyone who will be condescending or make him feel stupid. Again, this makes me a good candidate for teaching him. If anything, I’m a person who believes that intelligence is not something measured by standardized tests.

I will meet him next week and decide if I want to take him on. I really don’t have the time, but he sounds so darn interesting I can’t resist considering it.

What is funny is that even though the women directing this literacy program don’t know me well, they have me pegged. They told me about Hoyt, then looked at me out of the sides of their eyes and said, “I imagine you would learn a lot from a guy like him.”

Ha. Every other volunteer is here to save souls. I’m here to explore them. The others want people to read the bible. I want them to read everything else. I guess my motivation is transparent.

So, next week I will meet Hoyt, and perhaps his beautiful young Russian wife. I don’t know what will come of it, but one thing is for sure. You can expect  a blogfest after that one!