Seminar for Artists and Writers

Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write yourself. Your body must be heard.

-- Helene Cixous (from "The Laugh of the Medusa")

Readers! I have posted information below on the 5-week writing class I will be teaching starting next Friday. I would love to have you join. Here is a summary of the course and the sign-up details you will need to know:

Title of Class: Writing From the Body

Course Content:
What does it mean to attend to the body when we write? When we read? How does reading one’s body open up the creative process? Most artists are already aware that their bodies are “texts”; however, since Western epistemology so strongly reinforces a mind-body split, one task of the artist is to be intentional about healing the schism. This seminar will delve into questions like:

• In valuing the mind as apart from the body, and in defining reason as abstract and transcendent, how have we lost the concrete, incarnate nature of knowledge?

• How has disconnection from our bodies impacted the manufacturing of inauthentic self-expression?

• How would “writing from the body” gift us with freedom?

• What is the role of caring well for the body in the life of the artist?

The seminar will both explore relevant theory from diverse disciplines (including relational psychology, feminism, literature, and linguistics) and offer practical techniques for creating embodied writing/art. While the seminar can serve as an aid to those specifically practicing creative writing, it is more broadly designed to be a class on the creative process itself and how to unlock artistic expression. People of all skill levels are invited to join.

Dates: Fridays, March 27, April 3, 10, 17, & 24
Time: 9:30-11:00 a.m.
Location: 444 Ravenna Blvd., #309, Seattle, WA 98115
Instructor: Kimberly George
Cost: $125 for the 5-week course ($25 per 1.5 hour session) due the first week of class. $25 deposit will hold your registration.

To register or receive more information, please email:
writeexpressions at gmail dot com (That's obviously the spam-proofed version of my email, so change it to the real thing when you write!)

5 Things.

1. With the aid of a daily dosage of antihistamines, I am falling in love with two dogs—Cali and Danali, who are roommates of mine in my new home. I have never gotten along with dogs, and not because I am an unkind person, but rather because their dander makes me miserable. But, I seem to have found the right combination: medication that works, and two dogs who are great at keeping me company, but who understand that I can’t cuddle with them. On rare days, I let myself pet them, but that is dangerous territory. Usually, I just talk to them a lot and remind them not too feel rejected even thought I can’t touch them. I really like, though, how Cali just puts her nose on my lap when I write, and Danali just flops beside us looking sagely. Dogs are great company for a writer.

2. Soon, I will know my fate for next fall. If I don’t get into school, then I need to come up with a great plan to travel the world or something. Actually, England keeps popping to mind…perhaps I could live in Bath or London…or work on a farm somewhere in Ireland…or a vineyard in Italy…or…hmmm…just trying to remind myself that the world is vast. (However, just so the Universe doesn’t get confused here…my openness to possibilities doesn’t mean I don’t most desire to be in academia again, amidst great classes and conversation and resources for the topics that most excite me….) I will find out the answer from the Universe, or rather the answer from admissions teams, on March 15.

3. I need Spring to come. In more ways than one. Daily, I check the little patch of crocuses in the front lawn…they are mentoring me. They know when to be still as little seeds. They know when to follow the sunshine. They know when to offer their bold expression to the world. Rest, patience, tenderness, strength, beauty. This is what I am learning under their tutelage.

4. My friends are all preparing to graduate this May from their counseling psychology program, which would have been my degree if I had not decided to pull out of school, delve into my book project, and research a new school. It is always interesting…that road not taken. I am glad life has so many choices. I seem to get to know myself better with each new choice I make. And while I have never regretted not completing that Masters program, it is an odd juxtaposition these days as I wait to hear back from schools.

5. I have fallen for all things lavender. If you want to delight me, you can send me lavender salad dressing or shampoo or lip balm or ice-cream. Yes, lavender ice-cream. It’s delicious. Like anything in life that I get excited about, I tend to over-do it. I am trying to pace myself with my lavender love, but it does often seem that the fun is in not practicing moderation, but simply plunging in.

Re-thinking Today's Verbs

I read an article today about one of the best violinists in the world, Joshua Bell, playing musical masterpieces on a 3.5 million dollar instrument at a metro station in Washington D.C, while hundreds passed by oblivious.

The article explains, “No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?”

The answer, in a nutshell, was no. Joshua Bell got a few nods and some spare change.

Arguably there are many reasons for a thousand people to walk by and hardly notice brilliance. We are busy. We are late for work. We are out of a context to recognize genius. We are inundated with requests for our time and our money. Our eyes our weary, spending their days bouncing back and forth between inboxes, bank accounts, Facebook pages. Our ears have grown deaf to the chatters and hums and beats that mark the monotonous rhythms of the afternoon. Our thoughts are obsessing, calculating, and getting lost in our unspoken griefs or hopes or plans.

We are, as T.S. Eliot reminds us in Burnt Norton, “distracted from distraction by distraction.” Many of our “distractions” our entirely necessary and good: bills certainly need to be paid, emails need to be written, grief needs to be grieved, hopes need to be dreamed up, stored up, pondered.

And yet this article still made something explode inside me, even if I know full well why hundreds of people ignored Joshua Bell. I just know that I don’t want to live my life ignoring beauty. I don’t want to not see the “trees with the lights in it,” as Annie Dillard writes. 

Somehow, as I have gotten older, my brain has gotten re-wired more for to-do lists than rest; more for frenzy than presence. I want to remember how to take a walk and notice the sky and the air; observe the murmurs of life; see that whimsical boy delighting in bugs on the sidewalk.

After I read this article today, I looked up at my day’s to-do list, which I hang every morning on my dining room wall. In a blue Sketchers marker, its notes remind me to read, teach, write, call, email, plan, pack….Perhaps the list needs a few more verbs.

Listen. Notice. Receive.

Writing Retreats and My Internal Critic

In my continuing tale of fantastic gifts from the universe, I got to go to Oregon last weekend for a writing retreat. I finished my last graduate school application on Thursday and then left Friday morning for Portland. I was happy to be done with the applications, and though rather tired, I was eager to delve back into my book project. This place in Portland was fantastic: sunshine galore, a cozy guest bedroom, a space to dance and stretch my limbs, a puppy that munched on my toes. (OK, that last feature was not entirely pleasant! But she was adorable, despite my allergies and inability to touch her!) 

Now, I have been on enough writing retreats to know that writing is hard wherever one is, and yet there is something so helpful about putting myself in a new space in order to trigger new thoughts and sensations. And yet, I inevitably spend the first 24-hours of any writing retreat battling the demons of self-doubt and loneliness and spiraling into an intense session with my Internal Critic.

But, at least I know this process now—I know that before I find that free place with words, I have to get through all my fears that arise whenever I enter creative space. My friend Nick says to "bow" to the fear. I think he is right. There is something about not resisting, but acknowledging its presence that actually helps me. Some days I even banter with it. "Well, how are you this morning, Wretched One!?! Not a surprise to see you. Perhaps if I befriend you, you will be kinder to me today...."

So, I have decided to copy an excerpt of a journal entry, written last weekend while battling my Internal Critic on my writing retreat. I think that when I say I go away for writing retreats that most people aren't quite sure what I do! Well, in addition to drinking lots of tea, obsessing over passages in my book, and reading excerpts of inspiring authors, I am simply trying to come to terms with the writing process itself. I am trying to befriend my Internal Critic. Here's what the process is like in my own head:

I am trying to be kind to myself today, because I know that in this life of writing I am struggling to find something precious: a kind of salvation; a release of control; intimacy with my unconscious; a freely moving song. But if that is the case—if so much of what writing essentially is is so different from how I live my controlled, disciplined life—no wonder I feel like I am wrestling with a juggernaut as I sit down to write. This task is hard not because I am not good with language, but because I am not yet free to access my own un-muted self. And perhaps that is why I cannot stay away from it, because within it I sense something very true of me wanting to be born again and again, released like sparks in my fingerstips.

Writing is not simply the task of putting one sentence down after another. It is the task of laying down words faster than my editor can keep up with me, until that imperceptible transition comes and I’ve found a rhythm, no Internal Critic in my consciousness. Then, I write well and only stop writing well when I realize I am doing it—kind of like when I first was learning how to ride a bike. To become conscious of the freedom is to risk slipping into the controlling anxieties that fear the wildness of fingers that speak more intuitively than the pace of the mind.

Writing for me is a maddening collection of opposites that must learn to co-exist in the work. I know that it is my obsession that make me a good writer and my obsession that makes me a poor, worried writer, spinning in circles with fears and words. It is my hard work that gives me the perseverance to keep at this, but also my hard work that stifles the play and the laziness that are so essential to the spontaneity of creation. It is my reflective, analytical mind that gives me the words to frame a way of seeing—it is also my overactive mind that keeps me from being in a moment, present to my body's knowledge and senses, which is essential for good writing. 

Ask and You Shall Receive

The Universe is clearly playing with me. In the past 2 weeks, the following things have freely come to me, which have all delighted my heart immensely:

Gerber daisies, randomly given, by the Trader Joe’s grocery man when I was purchasing bread, cheese, and pears. In an act of clairvoyance—or perhaps simple compassion—he intuited I needed vivid, fuchsia petals for my kitchen counter, so he put a free bouquet in with my groceries.

A year pass to the Seattle Art Museum to feed my creative soul from an extremely thoughtful student/friend.

Extremely inexpensive housing for 6 months! Oh my gosh. This is crazy. Someone wants to be my patron while I finish up my book. It will be hard to give up my adored, Queen Anne home…but how does one become a writer if not for the kindness of those who support her? I am so grateful.

2 free, yummy dinners already this week. (Sushi last night—thanks Tara and Daniel—and now homemade soup from my friend Phil who says he wants to cook for a “starving artist." Well, how nice.)

A random check in the mail from a beloved one who decided to “tithe” part of a gift to me.

And now, as I write this very blog, if you can believe it, the barista here has just offered me a free cup of coffee. (I mean, I had planned to pay for it...but I don't want to disrupt the generosity of the universe.)

Why this flood of gifts? I LOVE it. These little and large encouragements help me to keep writing..trusting that the Universe is conspiring with me as I risk the direction of my dreams. (Do you know that line in the Alchemist? You should go read it if you don't. Really, go find that book.) Trying to write has been harder than I ever could have imagined, but there is this sovereign, crazy, blessed journey to the whole thing.

7 Things I Loved About Christmas

1. Nostalgic sledding at Manito Park on midnight of Christmas Eve. The snow was perfectly magical and the sky was glowing with the reflected lights of the city.  It was like being a little kid again, except Laura's parents spiked our thermos of hot cocoa with peppermint Schnapps.

2. Christmas Eve service before the sledding. Little kids dressed up. Babies sleeping in their parents' arms. Remembering Incarnation.

3. Going downtown to my favorite bookstore—Auntie's—and seeing 4 people I knew. I still like small towns. I like that each face might be a familiar one. And I love that Spokane still supports a locally owned bookstore. 

4. Having a very large family that is totally crazy but still loves to be together. Seeing my cousins all grown up. Doing our yearly family bowling "tournament." Laughing. Debating politics. Trying not to talk too much about politics. Realizing I am lucky to have this family.

5. Getting cozy gifts: slippers, hot pink and striped flannel pajamas, gift-cards for massages! Hooray. I feel spoiled. (And I want to wear my new slippers everywhere. My feet are so happy in them.)

6. Amazing food: crab manicotti, baklava, yummy drinks sprinkled with candy cane pieces, my sister's homemade bread and soup. Having my mom make me turkey bacon and eggs every morning. Just like when I used to come home from college. Rolling out of bed to a hot breakfast is such a treat. 

7. Flying back into Seattle and still getting excited when I see the lights of the city. Remembering where I was last year... curious what this next year will hold for this wandering, wondering heart.

Mrs. Soderberg and 7-Million Dollar Frustrations

Mrs. Soderberg was simply not a very nice person. I wish I could say this all more kindly, but the truth must be told.

This ever-memorable and very mean woman was my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, and she would roam the aisles of her class, moving amongst our desks and looking over our shoulders as we labored to diagram sentence after sentence under her cruel gaze.

Rumor has it that Mrs. Soderberg was a beauty queen in her youth. I don't like beauty competitions of any sort, and I certainly don't think her crown was beneficial to her life as a whole. Once its luster faded, she turned to torturing 13-year-old boys and girls and making sure they felt very stupid if they forgot what a predicate nominative was (and oh dear...I believe I just typed a misplaced modifier at the beginning of this sentence). Her technique—hovering over frightened pubescents— was how she retained her power. I have never felt even a scintilla of appreciation for Mrs. Soderberg.

Until now.

I came across this sentence tonight:

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

Now, it is not so much the sentence that bothers me (though it is certainly a conundrum to diagram), but what really bothers me is that the owner of the wretched sentence is reported to be on the verge of a 7-million dollar book deal.

If you have been following the happenings at publishing houses this week, you would know that there have been terrible cuts and layoffs. Times are tough. Many very good writers have very little shot at getting book deals for a very long time. Books are not recession proof and the production of art suffers in difficult economic times.

However, the owner of that aforementioned sentence will have her book deal.

The other thing I did not tell you about Mrs. Soderberg is that rumor has it she passed away 5-years ago, which honestly makes me sad. However, I am not above praying that her ghost will forever haunt Ms. Sarah Palin and force her to diagram her own damn sentences. That is the only justice I can think of—the only fitting retribution.

(I told you this post wouldn't be terribly kind. And I didn't even get into Joe the Plumber's book deal. Sigh. If you want to read more lament on this matter, go to the New York Times.)