be careful while reading: Holy the Firm

I've been eager to post some of my book musings from grad school, since I am so swamped with other kinds of work now.

I hope to write more of my encounter with Annie Dillard, beginning with a phone call I made to my physician. When I told him I could not afford the time to come to his office, I was working on deadline, he asked me to walk to a mirror. "Just tell me if the nose is straight." Blue, swollen, numb, yes-- but straight.

Ever since I accidentally sailed through The Dry Salvages, inadvertently studying mortality and loss of dignity, I’ve learned to be more superstitious about my literary life and my daily life. So I should not under any circumstances read Holy the Firm while away from my natural environs, should not be walking anywhere near falling planes or moths and open flames. Or banana peels in my pathway, or the rake resting in the grass with the tines pointing upward, waiting.
I should know. The possibility of irony is so vast, if one is foolish enough or lucky enough to read sixty-two books in two years—the possibility of overlap, of time warp linking past writing to current moment. I’ve read too much, and anything could happen.

So I pack my car with sleeping bags and stuffed animals and mud boots and farm clothes and third-graders for a three-day trip to a farm in New Hampshire, and I pack Holy the Firm. I’ve read excerpts, but not the entire book. And the forecast calls for rain. The children run off to milk cows and build a shed and dig in the garden, and I open Annie Dillard, to read about a landscape nearly like my own, watery and full of strange islands, a room full of windows, a small skull of a place to live. The dreamlike quality of the first essay tugs me in and out of tangible realities and we are talking about days and gods and I’m not sure exactly what burning thing the cat drags in at the end of the chapter, but Dillard is fearsome like that cat.

In chapter two, the plane falls from Dillard’s sky and a child is burned beyond recognition—the child, the burning god that the cat drug in. Dillard launches into questions about the nature of God and gods, about angels and fire. And she says, “The joke of the world… is the old rake in the grass, the one that you step on, foot to forehead.” Any properly superstitious reader would immediately slam the book shut and utter prayers like, “is not, is not, is not…” with squeezed-shut eyes, but did I do that? No. I went on to drive the car to the store to buy marshmallows for third-graders to roast in the woods. We found the head of a horned steer rotting on a shelf near the old cabin, and dry wood underneath the old cabin, and we started a fire even in a heavy mist of a rain. And no one’s eye was put out, even though the possibility was right there. We were playing with fire. Or as Dillard might note, we could see clearly the fire we were playing with, though we are all playing with fire every minute of our lives.

I got up the next morning and walked kids to the barn, where we learned to milk a cow, and we waved to the kittens, and I asked about the steer’s head in the woods. The farmer wanted the skull, you see, and he didn’t want coyotes or bobcats to be attracted to the barn with the scent of rotting meat. And he did want the woods creatures to eat away the flesh of the steer, leaving the bone. We listened as we brushed the milk cow and calmed her, as the barn cats lapped up the first bowl of cream.

I thought the threat of Chapter Two had passed, so I read more about Julie Norwich and fire, and prayer, and rakes. “You wake up with a piece of tree in your skull. You wake up with fruit on your hands. You wake up in a clearing and see yourself, ashamed.” With this reading I see Adam and Eve, and a Tree in the skull, the Fall. Dillard lives in a skull of a room, she writes, and the tree is right there with her. It all comes clear.

I am careful while walking on this farm, a Waldorf farm, which means anything could kill you any time because we do not over-protect children. And that is why an enormous coping saw lies out on the big stump by the volleyball net, and lengths of sodden plywood forms a ramp for bicycles in the woods. I watch for the saw, for the ramp, for the obvious, for the rake, and meander through those questions of evil and innocence, while getting muddy with third-graders. The volleyball disappears and I find seven boys inching closer to the electric fence, the ball on the other side. The ground is wet and I catch one boy reaching out a hand… I tell him there is nothing to be done, that the volleyball game is over now. The boys shrug and walk away, looking back over their shoulders at the blue volleyball in the green field, on the other side. No one is killed, again and again.

Day Three on the Farm, parents arrive and the sky clears and we hike North Pack Monadnock, eating our bag lunches at the summit. The nine-year-olds rush back down the trail. Two of us parents decide to hurry down the mountainside to catch up with the boys, since most injuries happen during descents—we talk about this. I worry about my toes—my sandals are athletic, but the toes are open, and I don’t want to be stupid. I grab a sturdy walking stick to help with the rough terrain. The stick helps more than I would suspect and I pick up speed.

Then I slip on a wet slab of granite, and as I fall my walking stick gets caught between a tree trunk and my foot and the fat stick slams me in the face: the tree, in my skull, the sudden awakening in the twinkling of an eye. You wake in a clearing with fruit on your hands. The man who’d been rushing ahead to help children hike safely, returns to say, “well, we need to find something to wipe the blood from your chin,” and a ten-year-old boy tells me the vampire look is “in” this year, as he passes me to join his younger brother below. “Is my nose broken?” The man thinks not. I stagger to find flat ground, to get my bearings. My teeth and jaw are numb. The other parents make me take caution down the last miles of the mountain trail, me hanging with the people at the back, mopping occasional blood from my swelling lip. I mutter something about rakes and enlightenment and being knocked into next week.

I feel certain the moral of the story is to never read Annie Dillard. “Teach my thy ways, O Lord,” is the kind of prayer one ought to know better than to pray, as she implies. But the temptation is far too great. Some people read crime novels, or horror stories, because they can’t help themselves. I read dangerous books about fire and angels and pieces of wood flying at skulls. I’m building a tolerance for the next whack, I suppose. I am asking the same questions, why, how, how come, and I feel fortunate it is my bloody nose and aching teeth, and not some child on fire. The parents pull me aside to tell of mishaps over the past year, a bruised hip, stitches, a broken nose. They remind me that we heal, albeit slowly. I add an ice pack, rinse with salt water, spit blood.

I should be more careful what I read. Too bad. I can’t, and I won’t. I’ll just be mindful of the tree in my skull as I read of seraphim bursting into flames for the love of God.

quiet October morning

The weather is startlingly cold for October, but my condo by the sea responds well to sunlight. I will open the windows, soon.

Many student papers to grade. Also soon.

Much to tell, but I am swamped with work and deadlines. I'm also recovering from a hip injury-- I fell while hiking in New Hampshire in May, and my back remains stiff since then. I've been working hard with a chiropractor and an Alexander teacher, trying to work the kinks out. Monday was my first pain-free, stiffness-free day, and Tuesday was not so bad, either. All to say I spend a surprising number of hours on my back, on the floor, daily. And this means I'm neglecting you and my poor, poor blog-- can't blog very easily from the floor. I'm seeking a comfortable reading chair, which might remedy this situation. For now the floor is the only place my back tolerates well.

Many stories brewing in my head.

I must grade! The sun shines. The coffee is hot. The pencil is sharpened.

Will write more soon.

sandwiching

I park the car in front of my empty house. If I pick up the mail I might miss this small window of time to write. I don’t pick up the mail. I stuff the wrappers from last night’s dinner (three cheese sticks) in the walking shoes I did not wear today. My purse holds the ingredients for tonight’s dinner: organic fresh mozzarella, a loaf of rosemary-garlic bread, a small bunch of basil. I climb the stairs, open the door and set out my treasures. Jennie left me two fresh tomatoes. It will be a sandwich above all sandwiches, dripping with olive oil and feathered with thin ribbons of basil. A marked improvement.

Teaching is wonderful, when I feel effective. Last night’s class erupted like a carefully built bonfire, one thing on another on another, a sea of inspiration from beginning to end. I opened the class with “interrupted free-writing,” asking students to list things they feel passionate about, favorite foods, people they miss, things they talk about. I asked them to circle three or four items on the list, and to keep the list handy. With a few sentences on thesis statements, and a few items from the syllabus, we listened to several examples of NPR’s “This I Believe” essays, evaluating each for tone and subject matter, beginnings and ends. Then we rearranged the classroom into small groups and worked on revising our own thesis statements in a recent essay. I offered a handout on beefing up thesis statements, and teams went to work. We listened to one last NPR essay, and the class was over.

Tonight’s class is the more introverted section of students, and they will not be played with, will not argue with me. I need to give them more structure and tuck away some of my enthusiasm. They are not convinced they need a class in order to write better. They are not convinced they need a book to help them write college papers. They are not convinced (at all) that revision will help their writing. In truth, they are okay writers, with passable skills—but what I see as “passable” will not get them through college. How will they learn to write with excellence, if they don’t see their own need? It’s a harder sell, all around.

The first bite of my sandwich is AMAZING. I can’t say how long I’ve been hungering for this little feast—okay, I can say. I’ve been hankering for this sandwich since I saw the first ripe tomato, maybe five weeks ago. But I hate to shop, and I don’t describe “fresh mozzarella” effectively, I guess. Scott and kids went to a cookout at his school, and I dropped by the farmers market, knowing the season is nearing its end.

Each day I follow up a few more things on the list of necessary tasks, phone calls, appointments, calendar stuff, catching up. I hope for a few hours to write and edit, tomorrow, before I get mired in administrative stuff. I’ve been traveling and transitioning for eight or nine weeks, and now I need to pull this writing/teaching life together. Like this sandwich, I don’t want to miss the whole season of tomatoes, or the whole season of autumn and writing.

I may need to write out some thoughts for tomorrow, so I wake up ready. First rule to beat procrastination: start early. I just said that in class.

I pick up the tomato seeds on the tip of my finger, and mop up a few drops of olive oil from the empty plate. Think I need a second sandwich. Look—I left the ingredients out on the counter…

September note

The first week of September passes, and unlike most of my Septembers here, it’s no longer beach weather—by the start of September, a cool breeze blew under even the warmest temperatures, and we’ve turned toward autumn: finding socks, finding long pants, finding jackets. We were left with no time to mourn the passing of summer, and perhaps that’s a good thing. The days go on, sunny and beautiful and just near perfect, but the air chills as the sun goes down, and the skies darken at an hour appropriate to school-night bedtimes. Kids sleep, and I’m grateful.

I am teaching college students how to write—a miraculous fit for my gifts and strengths. I hope to discover how to do my own writing, along the way, since I’m only teaching part-time. So far I’m just keeping up with the grading and class prep. I’m eager to submit essays to literary magazines, and I have one essay 95% ready—it needs one more technical edit, line-by-line, to make sure I’ve cited my source material correctly. Then I’m eager to dig into my story about learning to cook. Then my story about my sense of smell. And I need to keep digging for more new writing.

Soon. Right now I’m just keeping up. And starting the house-shopping process, and parenting, and trying to catch up with the glut of papers and books collected over two years of grad school.

You will see more of me, here. But the weather is too beautiful just now. I’ve been suffering a stiff back and neck, and I’m going to go walk the beach to see if the stiffness subsides. I’m a bit behind on grading, but I’m more behind on walking and sand and breeze.

Happy September to you.

just as I was preparing to be gainfully unemployed...

I've been offered a teaching position at a nearby college!

I will need to carve out time to write-- but it's going to be a few weeks.

Thanks, friends and readers. I'll return soon.

Denise

i just turned five.

Dear readers,

In the year 2004 I returned home from a summer in New Hampshire, where my husband worked for a camp and I tended our children in the big green woods. I recall how excited I was to return to internet access, how I immediately set out to find six friends from college, to see if they were planning to attend our 20th reunion. No yeses, but I rediscovered a friend or two or three, and I wanted to tell them how I got here, to find out how they arrived where they are. One especially-dear writing friend suggested I start a blog. I didn’t know what the word meant. He said it was a commitment to write, so I said yes, I wanted a commitment to write.

I wrote a column for Amy, for the alumni newsletter of an organization I loved. Amy was kind enough to let me write articles for two years. When the alumni newsletter changed formats, Amy introduced me to Kirsten at Catapult magazine, who graciously welcomed my writing, though she’d never met me. I drafted a memoir while I worked as a writing tutor for a nearby college. I was tossed out on my ear from the local memoir class—no one would read after me, or critique my stuff, and the teacher said I’d need to move on to something more advanced, even if I felt like a new writer. (She is a lucky find of a teacher, in so many ways.)

Three years ago I snagged my first freelance paycheck for Interweave Spin-Off, a magazine for spinners of yarn, with a six-page piece titled “How to Host Your Own Yarn-Party for Children.” My second and third freelance pieces were for Living Crafts magazine. And I got a job with Ladies Home Journal and then More magazine.

And the last two years have been happily invested in grad school. I’ve worked harder than I thought possible, and my writing continues to surprise me.

Happy Writing Anniversary to me: I’ve been writing for five years. I just graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing, from a program I love, with students and faculty I enjoy and admire. “What’s Next?” is a huge question, with children home on summer vacation, I’m sending resumes, checking around, getting suggestions. Of course, I’m a writer, so what’s next is my writing, after vacation and after beaches and general August behavior. When kid-school starts, I will edit my favorite essay one more time, and submit it to literary journals. And then I’ll get to work on my story about learning to cook, for a food-writing anthology. And then I’ll edit and revise the stories about my work as personal assistant to a blind woman.

That ought to keep me busy.

Meanwhile I hope to write letters, if I can, and post some of my graduate annotations while I pull together my blogging-self once again. I started this blog as an exercise in gratitude, and in gratitude I continue.

Thanks for being here. You are very dear readers.

Denise