I walked out of the Sutter Hospital building on H St. thinking to myself, this is my new church. I had stumbled, well actually reclined (my doctor told me about the AWA writing group during my annual gyn exam) onto a totally different kind of writing process. In this group everyone was equal and the emphasis was on relaxing into our creativity and letting go on the page, on trusting our creative genius.

Not wanting to sound evangelical, I kept the thought to myself but treasured the feeling and wondered about it. The fellowship of Outward Bound came to mind along with the good will of long ago Sunday School mornings, but no real clarity.

Through the years of writing in AWA groups, I’ve been touched by the vulnerability shared while reading our brand new pieces of writing. How mysteriously the AWA process works to bring us closer to our own truths. How egalitarian the conversation, how it satisfies what wasn’t fed at the dinner table all those years growing-up. How, sometimes, buried feelings dovetail into memories and a subtle knitting of spirit to body, mind and emotions occurs, a layer of congruence, like new connective tissue is formed.
But still, I don’t understand why it feels like church to me.

Hence, I’ve been waiting with great anticipation for Pat’s new book, How the Light Gets In: writing as a spiritual practice. Ten years in the writing, the book was celebrated this week along with Pat’s life and that of her husband Peter, at Pacific School of Religion where Pat is professor emeritus. A new fund for AWA was announced so PSR will be training people to become AWA writing group leaders. The funny thing is that both Pat and Peter left the church in their fifties. Deciding they could no longer identify with any denomination, they struck out on their own. But rather than discard the mystery, Pat chose to rappell deeper into it.

The preface of her new book begins with a journal entry from when she was beginning the book. The following are snippets from that entry:

This time I want to find my way, explore my way, take my time. I want more than I have ever asked of myself before. Maybe it requires a silence and a centering that I have not yet– in my whole life–given myself.

This time I want to go for the big one. Some people in Missouri wade into deep water, reach far back into underwater caves in the river banks, catch huge catfish in their bare hands, pull them out alive. Something wild, something hidden, human hands reaching for that wildness, touching it. What does it mean–our violence, our hunger, our need?

The Presence is mystery. It breathes, and I feel its breath on my hand as I write the words: This time I want to go for the big one.
–P.S.

I’ve just begun reading How the Light Gets In and am already gaining clarity into what makes writing sacred for me. If you have felt writing to be a kind of entryway into mystery, even a kind of prayer, then I suggest reading Pat’s new book and hope you will share what you think of it with her at www.PatSchneider.com or with me here at Visionary Space for Grace.

Rock your voice on paper,

Janet

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I’m greeted by a smiling, ruddy cheeked young woman dressed in bright green, orange, and yellow and topped with a red hat. You look like a Tibetan I hail. Do you have any chickens left? We’re all sold out she answers. Well good for you I say. We don’t know each other but we pick up where we left off every Saturday at the farmers market, enthusiastic about all matters of things, the soil, the weather, the things she’s planting. She is excited about her life and dreams. It makes me happy and I love wishing her well.
I make my way around the market.  Hey Pablo I say.  Pablo has the most fantastic vegetables. They have a special sheen and  I feel healthy just looking at their colors. Pablo and his girl have a special sheen too. Pablo has decided to sport a handlebar moustache. How’s it going Pablo I say. Its going he says, alot of hard work, you’ve gotta be creative. And it’s a good life I say.  Yes it is he replies.
I make my way to the pizza truck where I’ll have pizza for breakfast on this crystal clear cold Saturday morning. I love the pizza wagon. Its shiny fire engine red and has an oven on top that looks like a giant termite nest, its warm and glowing with fire on the inside. Two fat brothers are loading the pizzas in and out.  I love your pizza wagon I say to the wife who’s putting on the toppings. She looks up with a smile.. I do too she says.  We look at each other suddenly intimate. She tells me how the oven came all the way from Italy and that the cart was made somewhere in California.  I suddenly picture this planetary pizza connection of cart makers and earthen wear ovens and pizza vendors in farmers markets all over the world.
I go to pick up my fish. Now this guy is my hero for if I could live out a fantasy it would be to be a hunky fisherman’s woman riding the wind and the almighty sea. So I linger.  Do you have a website I ask. Yes and he gives me his card so I can order my fish ahead of time with a nice discount.
Next I make my habitual visit to my friend Jim, known as the Farmer in Charge. He has leadership qualities,  sometimes mentors beginner farmers and seems to carry out all his duties with kindness and a sharp sense of humour. He’s always in a great outfit, an almost but not quite silly bowtie, something striking for Saint Patty’s day, an especially fantastic Russian snow hat, a particularly wooly jacket over a smart vest and a flowery apron. Yes a flowery apron!  It’s not surprising that he has mentored young Pablo of the handlebar moustache. He’s got an assortment of tasty exotic vegetables and the most wonderful spuds. I appreciate the sun and laughter creases in the corners of his eyes.
I move on down to Pilt’z produce and Lisa’s petals and the trading begins.. I pick up my sack of sweet as candy mandarins, my spaghetti squash and a bouquet of brightly colored flowers. Put it on my bill Lisa I say. Sure bet she says. I can’t wait to see you on Tuesday  cause  boy do I need a massage she says. I have developed a nice clientele of farmers for my massages. It’s a win win situation.
Lastly I arrive at the Natural Trading Company where I’ll find Brian or beautiful Tess or some fresh faced kid traveling the world from farm to farm. I gather up greens and herbs and tomatoes and onions and sprouts.. Oh what bounty.   I say time for you guys to come in.  Call and make an appointment.   I owe you and I do!
I am so grateful to these people for their hard work, for the feeling of abundance they give me each week, for the colorful clothes, the open smiles, the bow tie, the exchanging, the joking, the well wishing, for pizza and tamales and muffins and all the other things I didn’t mention that have been cultivated with love and hard work and courage.
When I get to the movie that night I sit through 45 minutes of corporate hoopla before the film starts. I am taken on a virtual subway ride through giant coca cola and popcorn totems, they tell me in a sweet robot voice to turn off my cell phone and that I can get my (six dollar popcorn) in the lobby. Then my eardrums are blasted by a series of previews; cutesy animated movies, cars blowing up and the latest and greatest technological fantastic digital without much of a story eye popping spectacle. I’m tired when it’s over and my ears hurt and I’ve finished my damn popcorn by the time the movie finally begins. It cost millions and millions of dollars to make. It is a masterpiece and the lead actor supports and funds micro credit and donates money on twitter.
It seems we’ve made some strange kind of circle here. Oh what a crazy world.

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Writing together is a highly civilized kind of conversation.  There is a creative synergy at play and it supports us as we write, not knowing what words and feelings will arise in response to the prompt or whether we will choose to share our writing. This is brave work, adventurous and excellent for strengthening your voice.

Here’s a story I wrote in response to a prompt of, Take us to a holiday memory.

When my daughter, Martha, was two years old, I gave her a wind-up frog for Christmas and she adored it for a few moments. Then she discovered that the empty boxes could be filled with wads of crumpled wrapping paper.

“Look Honey, here’s your frog,” I said making clicking noises with it. She ignored me, involved in her work.

If I’d been able to slow down and ask questions at that stage of my life, I might have asked, What compels me to want her to play with this ten cent frog? And more importantly, Can I see what my daughter likes, can I simply build an understanding of my daughter’s preferences? 

Year after year I decorated floor to ceiling with Santas, candles and bushy swags of plastic greens. Martha didn’t want to help so I did it myself, determined to replace the alcoholic Christmas memories from my childhood with fresh, satisfying ones.

“I don’t care about Christmas,” my daughter said.

“Yes you do,” I intoned. And off into the stores I went, searching for charming gifts  to woo my daughter’s joy and light her Christmas spirit.

“You spend too much money,” she said handing me a slip a paper with two or three important items on it, usually books or cds.

When Martha was sixteen our family somehow decided to give only one gift each. With all the time saved from opening presents we drove to Point of Pines Lake on the Apache reservation and walked through the light snow along the fingerling creekbed that traced the meadows edge.

“Look, a bald eagle!” Martha whispered, pointing into the vibrant, blue sky and that’s when I understood the Christmas spirit she had needed all along.

Here’s wishing you discover whatever you need to make this a memorable holiday!

Janet

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