I read in the paper today that Ruth Bernhard, the celebrated photographer, passed away in her home in San Francisco at the age of 101. I know of Ms. Bernhard and her work from my studies at Vermont College. In my third semester my study was centered around an overview of art, artists and creating my own art. My dear advisor, Charlotte Hastings, who knew I wanted to explore individuals who not only crafted beautiful art but a rich and meaningful life,  sent me a book about Ms. Bernhard written by Margaretta K. Mitchell entitled Ruth Bernhard: Between Art and Life. I found the photography striking and unusual. She was renowned for her beautiful and sensitive female nudes in black and white. She was also a beloved teacher and mentor to hundreds (maybe thousands) of young photographers.

In reading about her, as much as I was impressed with her art and dedication to teaching, I was even more so with her philosophy of life and her willingness to walk a daring and controversial path as a woman in the early twentieth century. She never married or had children, understanding that to have a family would be a compromise to her art and that she would consider friends, students and colleagues as her "family." After reading her book for my study, I wrote a short piece for my e-letter about her and included her Recipe for a Long and Happy Life. I print it below and include some photos of hers. If you’d like to read more and see more of her photos you can go to the Women in Photography web site.

Recipe for a Long and Happy Life

Last night I was looking through a book about the photographer, Ruth Bernard, who at the time (1999) was 95 years old and still teaching, exhibiting and vitally involved in producing art. Her story and her work are inspirational. I was also thinking about when a friend and I were watching a video about another artist and my friend asked, “Why are all artists so crazy?” I found myself contemplating what it takes to really give yourself to your art and how it is different for every individual. How, each individual has circumstances and choices that influence how they approach life and art. It is certainly true that great poetry, novels, paintings and performances can be created even though the artist is a tortured soul, but it is also true that an artist can produce dynamic work and live happily. Perhaps the latter takes more vigilance, patience, attention to nurturing other aspects of one’s life besides one’s art. Perhaps it is a compromise or, perhaps, simply the grace of God.

Ruth Bernard is an example of someone who certainly lived an unconventional life, but it was one she carved out for herself, one that was particularly suited for who she was and how she wanted to navigate the world. She never married nor had children. She found that the love she so valued could be found among friends, lovers, sharing her knowledge with students. She decided not to confine herself to society’s dictums and to trust her intuition and to “fall madly in love with the world.”

Below is Ruth’s Recipe for a Long and Happy Life. I found it inspiring and plan to refer to it often, especially when I am in one of those emotional valleys that come along every so often.

Recipe for a Long and Happy Life

1.  Never get used to anything.
2.  Hold on to the child in you.
3.  Keep your curiosity alive.
4.  Trust your intuition.
5.  Delight in simple things.
6.  Say “Yes” to life with passion.
7.  Fall madly in love with the world.
8.  Remember: Today is the Day!

Folding 

Straws 

Trees Walking 

The Night Birds is the affectionate monikor for five poets who meet regularly with our mentor poet, Sarah Maclay, to share new poems, thoughts on revision, what we’re reading, where we’re workshopping and sending submissions, where we’re stuck or flying high and basically roll like happy horses in the dust and mud and wonder of poetry. Night Birds is comprised of Barbara, Hilda, Michael, Stephany and myself. We were fortunate enough to be invited to read at The Coffee Cartel by our hosts from the Redondo Poets, Jim Doane, Larry Colker and our own, Stephany Prodromides, as a feature for their weekly gathering on Tuesday evening. Each of us have all read at different venues over the last few years, but this was our first foray as a group.

Starting from varying points we all began the evening by plowing through pre-Thanksgiving traffic, trekking south on either the 405 or Hwy 1 or winding through clogged city streets. It took Barbara and I a good hour-and-a-half of mostly bumper-to-bumper before we slid into a parking spot on Cataline Avenue, half-hour late for our dinner date with the group at the ZaZou Bistro. We quickly shed the traffic tension and relaxed into good food and even better conversation. Stephany brought her husband, Chris, Michael, his beautiful young daughter, Isabella and Hilda, her friend, Wayne, who agreed to be our official photographer for the night. Sarah had come to introduce us at the reading and proceeded (with a substantial twinkle in her eye) to pass out index cards and ask us each to write down a color, tree, flower, musical instrument, season, and clothing part, pass them to the left or right or across, setting us up to do a writing exercise for the next time we met. This kept us well occupied and filled in the gap between when we ordered and when we were served our food.

After dinner we walked two doors down to The Coffee Cartel and settled in on the scattered couches and around the small tables while the sound system was set up and people signed on for the open mic portion of the evening, which began at eight. About 8:30 the five of us were introduced as a group by Sarah (always eloquent and generous) and then as each of us took our turn reading, beginning with Hilda, then me, Michael, Barbara and Stephany. We each read about for four minutes (4-5 poems), then went one more round with a poem each at the conclusion. The crowd was friendly and appreciative. I think they might have enjoyed the variety of hearing five different voices in one feature reading. It keeps the interest level a little more acute, possibly, than hearing one poet for the full thirty minutes. Anyway, we all agreed it was a triumphant night, on a personal and poetical level. I toast my fellow Night Birds for their poetry and their panache! And to Sarah for taking time away from her incredibly demanding schedule to join and support us. And to friends and family who showed up that night and all the days and nights that we give to poetry.

Below are photos of the reading which, cosmically turned out to be in this golden, muted, slightly blurred form, possibly due to the lighting in Coffee Cartel or Wayne’s unfamiliarity with my digital camera (which I can barely operate myself). I kinda like them, actually. It gives the whole thing a surreal touch, as poetry readings most often feel like when you’re standing up there. I’ve also included a selected poem by each poet, with their kind permission.

*****

Chris (Stephany’s husband) was great moral support for all of us.

Isabelle, (Michael’s daughter) who is an artist and musician in her own right.

The cozy confines of Coffee Cartel.

Sarah introducing The Night Birds.

(Read on …)

I just counted the poems in my “to be revised” file. The total comes to 125, give or take, and there you have it. They all need work. I pull them out, fiddle with a word, a line break, delete whole stanzas, switch out “burnt” for “charred,” change the tenses, pull all the “ing” words, then put them back–all the while trying to remember the spirit of the poem—when I wrote it and what mood I was in and why it was important to get this moment down. Take for example this one…written a few weeks ago when I was in Oregon:

Over the Pass

On the last leg
I drive
behind a motorcycle
listening
to the Moody Blues, following

the ribbon
of yellow stripes,
singing to the biker man
who reveals no patch
of skin—
wanting,

in some throwback,
to trail
him until he rolls
to a stop in some dusty,
lost town takes
his boots off the skids,
and slides

his helmet over his head.
But it is better
this way—
pretending,
waving and cranking
up the volume, taking
a sharp

left
away from the setting sun
and gunning
the car
on home.

It had been a long day. My mother and I left around nine in the morning from my house in Sisters, drove the three hours to Portland, had lunch, visited my father and about four o’clock I dropped her off at her home and headed back over the Santiam Pass away from the cloudy and drizzly Willamette Valley. At one point I thought I had missed my exit and back tracked a couple of times, freaking out about my blurring eyesight and how I could barely make out the words on the giant green highway signs. I was struggling desperately inside of my head not to feel old and over the hill (couldn’t help the pun here). I fought the impulse to turn back, to stop and take a rest. I just wanted to get home before nightfall. With about fifty miles to go I found myself behind two motorcycles and, even though I had opportunities to pass them I did not. As we came to the summit of the pass and began to descend the clouds gave way to sunshine, my vision was 20/20 again and the years that weighed so heavily a couple of hours before melted like spring snow. I wrote the poem that night as the sun set.

I know the poem needs something. It’s telling me that loud and clear. It’ pretty good until the last sentence that begins with “But it is better / this way” where I feel the poem trails off (uh, oh, another pun) and, pretty much cops out. It’s part of a pattern I see where I can really go for it in the beginning of a poem but the endings!! Man, are they a bear most of the time. I wonder if it’s my brain that can’t seem to go certain places, that resists fully expressing my desires, phobias and rage. Or, is it (and I think this is pretty likely) that I want to wrap it all up with a nice bow? Want to have a happy ending? To engender hope, rather than despair? Want to provide a solution and not the question? Ah, now I think we’re getting somewhere.

So revision can be a real hard nut to crack, what with the internal head-circus going on and then getting down to the actual crafting of the poem. The latter seems like easy street compared to the former, which is why, I think, writing poetry intimidates so many people. The requirements are many, foremost of which is to never stop digging into your psyche, asking the tough questions and trying at every step to not be attached to an answer, to your answer. Come to think of it, this is most likely the primary reason I fell into poetry (or it fell into me), as another one of those ways to poke, provoke, confront and come out elevated. I better get back to working on that poem—and hey, if you have any ideas for those last lines don’t hesitate to send ‘em.

Yesterday was the monthly meeting of the Poets 4–a group of four poets (myself being one) who have been getting together now since February to share our poems, process, books, ideas, workshop experiences, and whatever else has any relevance to poetry. We’re all working at a similar level with our poetry endeavors and love to bounce all sorts of questions, musings and frustrations off each other. I met Barbara first at a workshop we attended in L.A. and then we took a UCLA Intermediate Poetry class with Laurel Ann Bogan in the winter where we met Nancy and then we both went to the Idyllwild Summer Poetry in 2004, where we met Mary. This past winter I was feeling the need to be in a group (didn’t have one at the time) and so was Barbara so we called the other two and thus began our Poets 4 monthly soirees.

************

Barbara, who doubles as an incredible artist

Nancy, who hosted us this month.

Mary, focusing intently on the feedback

************

We all marvel at how much we enjoy each other’s company and sharing our triumphs and travails with writing, revising, submitting and reading, reading, reading poetry. We bring books of poetry, CDs of readings, handouts from workshops we’ve attended, and of course, our latest poems to share and get feedback on. We feel comfortable with each other, safe to express our opinions, to get it wrong, to take risks and to give or receive support when we are struggling–and believe me, we have all struggled. We get together on Saturday mornings at one of our houses from 10 to about 1, then we have lunch together, either heading out to a restaurant or enjoying a casual “at home” affair. The time always flies and we wish it was longer–I know I do.

Community for me is key in any endeavor I undertake and it is no different with poetry. The creation of poetry is generally done in solitude (although it can be done collaboratively), I believe having various levels of community that can be both sounding board and moral support is crucial in keeping perspective on what matters most in life and in poetry. I feel very grateful to have Mary, Barbara and Nancy as dear friends and fellow poeteers. I am also blessed to have an extended community through many of the wonderful poets I have met in the last few years at Squaw Valley, Napa Valley, Idyllwild, and the other workshops and events I have participated in. Poems are great things–but without the men and women who sit down and write them, who turn their thoughts, observations, longings and griefs into words on the page…well, now, to my mind, those amazing people are the true works of art.

Food, books, poems—they all mix together in blissful harmony.

Me, Barbara & Mary–Nancy had to take the picture!

On the last night it’s a tradition for the SV poets to gather at the home of Oakley and Barbara Hall, the founders of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. There are about 80 of US all together and I’m amazed at how they manage to come up with all the tables and chairs that fill their living room, dining room and two large decks. There is a huge vat of curry on the stove (in a very tiny kitchen) and quesadillas being made on the spot, fruit and veggie salad, asparagus, sodas and wine and bread. The food is wonderful and the conversation lively.

The kitchen is buzzing. The quesadillas were hot off the grill and delicisioso! (yeah, I know that’s not an official word-but poetic license is in order when it comes to describing food).

***

Christine (wacky, wonderful roommate), David (fellow blogger) & Dean Young (love those pearly button shirts)

***

Sarah (dear poet mentor), Billie (need a hex or a blessing she’s your gal) & Alex (high school teacher in NY that any kid would love to have as their teacher)

***

Larry (love the shirt) and Jo (awesome first basewoman)

***

Chauncy (wrote his first love poem at SV) and Bryan (zen poet of Chico)

*****
The best part of the evening is after dinner one of the tables is folded away, we all gather ’round the fireplace and it’s time for anyone who wants to go for it to stand and recite a poem by heart. Frost, Yeats, Eliot, and of course, Dickins0n, were all honored, alongwith many others. Even I got up and spoke three short lines from a poem by Muriel Rukeyser that someone had sent me a couple of weeks before in an email: “Say it! Say it! / The universe is made of stories / not atoms.” I needed something really simple because memorizing does not come easy to me. I so envied some of the poets there who had several poems they could pull out of their pockets. I find the recitation of poems moving. I think of families or clans, people throughout time gathering around a fire or in the parlor or a small theater to tell stories, to chant and speak from the heart, to remember the elders, and to touch the essence of who we are as spirits, not bodies or minds, but visitors, bringing what we can to humankind.

Front row seats on the stone fireplace.

I don’t remember what Dean recited but this must have been a moment of high anxiety.

Liza read something long and, obviously, thought provoking.

C.D.: I think she did a cowboy song. She is a southerner.

Stephen with his Eliot recitation, complete with gestures and credible imitation!

Arlene expressing poetry through her beautiful dance.

Had to end with Sharon, who sang us a song–sweet, sad and full of all that’s Sharon.

On that note I’ll end this post with a favorite poem of Sharon’s and a huge THANK YOU again to all the folks at Squaw Valley Community of Writers. Until we meet again…

by Sharon Olds
from The Unswept Room

Kindergarten Abecedarian

I thought what I had to do was to read
the very long word, over the chalkboard,
ab-kedev-gi-hij-klem-nop-qurs-
tuv-wix-yiz, but what I had to do
was to look at a crescent moon-shape and to go
k k k k with my mind. It was strange,
like other things–that a very large Boy owned everything,
even a fire, where he could put me for the thoughts
in my head. Each day, I tried to read
the world, to find his name in it,
the trees bending in cursive, the bees
looping their sky script. Crescent moon
was k-k-k. Cereal bowl
uh-uh-uh. Cap-gun puh-
puh-puh. K-k, uh-uh, puh-puh,
kk-uhh-puhh, kk-uhh-puhh–
cup. Would God be mad? I had made
a false cup, in my mind, and although
he had made my mind, and owned it, maybe this was
not his cup, maybe he could not
put this cup in hell, and make it
scream the cup-scream. Maybe the paper
world was ours, as the actual one was his–
I was becoming a reader. For a moment I almost remember it,
when I stood back, on the other side
of the alphabet, a-b-c-d-
e-f-g, and took that first
step in, h-i-j-k
l-m-n-o-p, and stood astride
the line of the border of literacy,
q-r-s, t-u-v,
I would work for a life of this, I would ask
sanctuary: w-x-y-z.

Not easy. Not as hard as you might think. Excruciating. Humiliating. Inspiring. Challenging. Heartbreaking. Exhilirating. Okay, enough, enough already! When you come to Squaw Valley for the poetry week, what you sign on for is to write a poem a day, have it done each morning by 9 AM and be in workshop awake and ready to read your poem to the 12 other poets and the presiding senior poet. Everyone comes with their own intentions: to break through some old habits and play with new ideas, forms, language or to focus on a particular subject matter, writing poems that have a link in some obvious, or not-so-obvious way or to experiment purely with what comes up on any given day, to manifest material that can then be molded into a more cohesive and refined piece of writing.

My focus this time was to try something a little different each day, mostly to do with the structure of the poem, as well as being open to how that might affect the subject matter, or vice-versa. One day I wrote an abecedarian poem (the first word of each line begins with a letter of the alphabet in a descending order A-Z). On another day, inspired by Dean Young’s craft talk on the “primative poem,” I was inspired to create a chant-type poem using rhythm and a type of musical score to write an “Ode to the Flame, the Teardrop, the Flute.” On the last day I was so exhausted (physically and creatively) that I wrote a letter, a funny letter, to my fellow poets, trying to lighten my own load, as well as theirs, as we were all on our last legs that Saturday morning.

There are days during the week when the poem pops out as sweet and close-to-perfect as can be and there are days when the battle has been joined and you joust with your mind and the words on the page and your idea of how that poem is supposed to look and feel and sound…ultimately, though, the week is about going there…wherever the muse takes you and keeping up! I’m sure we all had those days when we were ready to hang up our Thesaurus and jump in one of those rubber rafts cruising down the Truckee River, but the truth is, that no one, not even the seasoned, published poets, knows for sure what’s available on the cosmic poetry highway on any given day. You show up with pen in hand with an idea and a willingness to go the distance…that’s all you can do. There’s always that possibility that magic will happen and a poem will be born and live long enough to actually be heard by others, to be a force for good in this crazy world.

*************

Here are some more photos from the week of poets at work….

What’s that thing you’re pecking at, Christina??

Sharon Olds & Michael in one of the “morning meetings” as Sharon preferred to call them.

Harryette Mullen with Jenny doing a “Poem First Aid” Session under the sparkling aspens.

Lori getting her poem ready in the SV central headquarters. Hopefully, this one won’t get eaten by the computer.

Dean Young & C.D. Wright signing books after the Thursday night reading.

Sharon at the Thursday reading–always a hint of humor, a deep well of passion.

Dean reading his poems–funny and poignant–an outlaw with a heart of gold.

I haven’t been writing much–only one poem in the last few weeks. Tomorrow I leave for Squaw Valley Poetry where I’ll be writing a poem every day for eight days. The first time I went was three years ago and I was really just beginning to think seriously about poetry. I didn’t know anyone there and had no idea how it all worked. I remember the first workshop day I was in a group with Gerald Stern as the “guiding poet.” The poem I brought really was bad. I was horrified really to have to read it and wished I could have just bailed out of the whole thing right then and there. He didn’t say much about it, thankfully, and also, thankfully, the format at SV is to encourage writing new poems and stretching your boundaries. The feedback is not to be critical, but to point out where the poem works, so as to keep the poet in a positive frame of mind and not discouraged, as these are only beginnings, not finished products.

As the week went on I grew more comfortable with the format and my poems came along as well. I had three great roommates: Kay, Karen & Julie. We were in a big house up on the hill, each with our own room and lots of space to spread out in. The owners were obviously writers, as they had a humongous Oxford English Dictionary (the kind that has to have it’s own stand to rest on) and Julie even brought a printer all the way from Alaska (she put it in one of those Styrofoam coolers to transport it on the plane), so we were set. Even with all of this the real test was always getting that poem done by 7 AM when the “poem couriers” would make their rounds to pick up the poems to be copied for that day’s workshop. There were late nights and early mornings and sometimes the two would merge, leaving some of us nodding out during the workshop or snatching a much needed nap in the middle of the day.

This being my second time around I do know mostly what I’m in for, what the schedule is, the pace of the day, the facilities and the staff and I even have a few poet friends who will be attending, so on that level, I’m feeling pretty comfortable. But then, there’s always the poems—wondering what they’re going to do, wondering if I can pull a rabbit out of my hat every day, can walk into those morning workshops and not want to turn around and run right out. Poetry doesn’t seem like risky business, well on the surface anyway, but it can be gut-wrenching to take a those few “just wet” lines into a group of poets and lay it out there for all to see. It is definitely a lesson in detachment. And, really, what the poem is at that time is “material.” It isn’t formed yet and has a long way to go before it reveals whether it is worthy of even being called a poem, although, sometimes you get lucky and a good one pops right out of the brain onto the page. That’s grace and it’s rare but always a happy moment.

Well, it will be a week or so before I’m online again. I doubt very much whether there will be time or internet availability to do much blogging up there. I will return with much to share in thoughts and photos and possibly a poem or two. Here’s the one photo I can find from the 2003 session with one of my favorite poets, Lucille Clifton and one of her wonderful poems from Blessing the Boats.

*************

hag riding

why
is what i ask myself
maybe it is the afrikan in me
still trying to get home
after all these years
but when i wake to the heat of morning
galloping down the highway of my life
something hopeful rises in me
rises and runs me out into the road
and i lob my fierce thigh high
over the rump of the day and honey
i ride i ride
*************

Oh, yeah, my back is still recovering from two days hard driving and sleeping on a funky mattress at the La Quinta Inn in Sacramento. (Recommendation: Don’t stay at a La Quinta Inn.) We made good time with the first day being longer but more scenic as we spent most of the time in the mountains until we hit Redding. The second day is that long stretch of San Joaquin Valley that has a smokey haze and the odor of stockyards constantly in the air. It’s good to be back and it was hard to leave. It took me a day or so to reorient to being here, found myself bungling in the kitchen a bit, thinking sometimes I was in the other house and why was the microwave smaller or the toaster settings different.

I really didn’t settle in to writing until the last couple of days I was away but I did write a poem that has potential, about the long waving grasses on the property. Every evening for about two hours, as the sun slowly set, I would be mesmerized by them as the wind swirled and whirled them in concert and they shone so vividly under the slanting light. Nature is fertile ground for poetry. The challenge I often find is to really, really be with nature on a level where I can hear what it is communicating. Or, better said, become attuned to how it is affecting me, what it is stirring up and what wants to be relayed via the sensory experience of the part of nature I am in relationship with at the time. I know that seems complicated (it does to me, anyway), but really it’s that thing called, “tuning in” that is a developed skill, a way of slowing down and allowing information to arrive via the cosmic AT&T and not be talking so fast yourself that nothing can penetrate the monkey-mind wall of sound.

It will be another month before I get back up north and this time I’m flying–getting there fast now that Horizon Air has direct flights from LAX to Redmond. Yippee!! Meanwhile, I have plenty of photos to keep me connected with those tall, tall pines, the creek in the meadow and those glowing twilight grasses.

*************

*************

*************

I used to think that to be a writer required that I designate a sacred time of day when I would go to my writing room, the one where hundreds of books line the walls on dark mahogany shelves, a green shaded lamp glows warmly on the worn, but classic writing desk, and an orange cat or aged golden retriever is curled up on the floor. I was sure a writer needed this kind of ambiance to bring about stories, to conjure up tales or imagine poems. In this setting one could close and lock the door, leave a sign on the outside, Do Not Disturb and come out four or five hours later with another chapter or essay or a few poems under one’s belt. And, one did this every day, at least Monday through Friday. This was the best of all worlds, the time and space components that led to a writer’s literary satisfaction and success. Even though there are some writers who do write like this—Stephen King comes to mind—for most of us it’s a squeeze job. We have to wedge writing time in between our jobs, taking kids to school, practices, etc, along with the innumerable errands and chores that, if not done, can leave the whole family without food, toilet paper or clean clothes for days. Then there are social engagements evenings and weekends, friends and family to keep in touch with, and if you’re married your spouse does deserve a smidgen of your time now and again.

What I have come to learn in the last few years is that to be disciplined as a writer doesn’t mean following any one particular regimen, sitting in any one particular space, with a candle lit and soft music in the background. It doesn’t mean I am not a writer if I go a month or two without getting a word down. It doesn’t mean hang up the pen, shut down the computer if I’m not sending poems out to journals every week. It doesn’t mean I can’t create good work if I have to juggle a few things at one time and get the writing in when there’s an opening between 3 and 5 on a Wednesday afternoon. What matters, I found out, is that I keep myself in the game. If I am not writing then I want to be reading—fiction, nonfiction, essays, and poetry. I want to be communicating with other writers; going to workshops or readings, calling or emailing, listening to CDs or online recordings of readings. Keeping a journal, even if sporadically, can be a treasure trove of material when I get back to it after a month or a year. All of these endeavors are a vital part of writing, of keeping the internal machine oiled and ready for when the time and space arise to get it down on paper.

Discipline is an important attribute; it can carry me through when I’m lacking energy or enthusiasm, but it will not sustain me in the long run. What will is devotion, devotion to a craft, to expressing what is important to me, to contributing to the well-being of others, to creating community. No amount of chiding or poking or guilt-tripping is going to get me to the desk and the pen unless in my heart I see it as a blessed opportunity, a treasured gift in this life to experience joy and fulfillment. This is truly the sacred space and time that I imagined to be my writing room. It exists inside of me. I carry it around. It is portable and flexible and ever ready to be put into action. It fits me, fits who I am and how I create. This is trusting that my way is the best way for me. This is being a writer who charts her own path and grooves to her own music. This is being a writer as only I can be a writer.