Saturday Haiku: Elusive

my first real haiku
so stubbornly elusive
rests in the future

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Photo by bortonia (Getty Images)

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Remembering Rick Watson

Rick and his wife, Jilda at his book table

I was deeply saddened to learn yesterday of Rick Watson's passing. I met Rick many summers back at the Alabama Writers Cooperative. Since we were both bloggers, and he hailed from Dora, Alabama, near my wife's hometown, we became friends and blogger colleagues. 

He had worked for years at Bell South but began his writing career as a  young man after a two-year stint with the Army. He wrote in one of his columns about how his friend Dale Short hired him as a journalist and photographer for The Community News in Sumiton, Ala. In 2007, Rick began writing columns for the Daily Mountain Eagle where he had a weekly column (you can read the paper's tribute to him here). He interviewed many local people and as such served as a compiler of the community's own local history. 

In his columns and in his books, Rick shared many homespun stories of life as he observed it. He loved fly fishing and offered to teach me the art. He told me he had some extra waders and I could join him anytime on the river.

Rick was also a musician and songwriter. He and his wife Jilda performed together at many local gatherings. He loved people, he loved life, he loved to be out in nature. Not only did he welcome you into his world, but he also had an extra pair of waders so you didn’t have to stand on the sidelines. That's just how he was.

Rick blogged at Life 101 where he made an entry every day, his last one just a few hours before he died. Prayers for his wife, Jilda. May he rest in peace. 

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Rick was an excellent photographer with an eye for nature. Here are two of his photos he posted on his blog just last week:

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Flashback: Form and Substance: How a Sonnet Saved My Life

[While I am working on another project, I am re-posting some of my favorite essays. This post originally appeared on August 22, 2011.]

The Sonnet

The sonnet is the most restrictive of

Poetic forms. A scheme is strictly set

Dictating poet's rhyme and rhythm, yet

He chooses it for lofty thoughts of love,

Admiring noble deeds, or saintly stuff.

Indeed, the sonnet always seems to let

Transcendence have its way so as to get

A sense of freedom. Thus we see it prove

To be the highest, freest form to whet

A true Poetic. Often when I see

The bounds within which I must find my way,

(The cold collective spreads its mindless net

And freedom seems to fade) I wish to be

A living sonnet soaring through the day.

CLK                                       2/82

The sonnet, like so many aspects of society, provides rules, structure and boundaries. We can find comfort in those boundaries we see in society. Boundaries give definition to what is expected and provide security in our roles. On the other hand, boundaries can be restricting and oppressive. We have common metaphors that speak to this paradox: “keep your hand on the plow,” “stay on track” are just as familiar as “he was chomping at the bit,” or “pulling at the traces.” Boundaries indeed offer guidance, but sometimes one must slip the traces or jump the tracks. I recently read some words from Spanish poet Antonio Machado which speak poignantly and profoundly about how we make our own way to find our true path in life:

Why should we call

these accidental furrows roads?

Everyone who moves on

walks like Jesus, on the sea. [1]

The sonnet above is one that I wrote when I was 28 years old. I offer it as an example of how one can be awakened by one’s own poem. At the time, I was teaching English at Hong Kong Baptist College on a two-year assignment with the Southern Baptist International Mission Board. I had graduated from seminary and had plans to go into ministry upon return to the States. During my first year back in the U.S., I was in the middle of a chaplaincy training program at Montclair Baptist Hospital in Birmingham, Alabama. One evening I was re-reading the sonnet that I had written two years before. For some reason, I imagined myself as a 68-year-old man and a young man was reading the sonnet. The young man asked me if I ever learned how to be a living sonnet. The only honest answer I could give in that imaginary situation was, “No. I never did.”

It was at that moment that I realized I needed to get out from where I was at the time. Toward the end of my chaplaincy training, I was offered the opportunity to apply for an opening in the chaplain residency program at the hospital. To the director’s surprise, I never applied for the position.

Finding New Directions

“Where will you go from here?” the Pastoral Care director asked. I had no clear answer, except that I knew I had to go away from where I was at that moment. The next year proved to be a formative year. I left the Baptists and found St. Andrew's Episcopal Church where there was a commitment to high liturgy and social service. While there, I found employment at St. Andrew’s Foundation working with adults with developmental disabilities in group home settings. The overarching ideal at St. Andrew’s Foundation was “normalization,” meaning that we would allow each person to live as normal a life as possible, with normal routines rather than being defined by their disability.

St. Andrew's Church

The home where I worked was a couple of blocks away from St. Andrew’s Church.  In those days, the bell in the church steeple would sound out the hours. The liturgical hours (Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline) were designated times of prayer throughout the day. This was a form that I was unaccustomed to, having grown up Baptist. While I worked with clients at the group home, even though those liturgical hours were unfamiliar, it was meaningful to hear the bells sound during the day. It reminded me to stop, if only briefly, to acknowledge that I was working within a larger context of meaning.

Even more than the liturgical hours in the background, the group home residents themselves gave my life a centering. More than teaching and certainly more than professional ministry, my work now seemed like real life. Teaching and ministry are both wonderful and needed professions, but my own strengths and abilities did not fully align with the tasks in either milieu. I was therefore not finding life within those structures.  At St. Andrew’s Foundation I sat on front porches and in living rooms of those group homes visiting and talking with residents who were limited in many ways, but they helped me to see more clearly what real life is about. All manner of assumptions were dispelled during those days. We were all learning each day how to better find our way in the world. They needed help with shopping, banking, household management, job training, and managing the conflict that arises just by living with other people. They were learning to have a home of their own, and I felt like I was finally home.

I would later recount, "It was at St. Andrew's that I came to realize that people who live with disabilities have something very important to say about what it means to be human. How we respond to people with disabilities says something very important about who we are as human beings." [2]
 

Nothing is constant, however. After several years of rewarding work at St. Andrew’s Foundation, I was also starting a family and needing to broaden my possibilities. To that end, I went back to my old alma mater for a degree in Nursing. My first job in the Nursing field was as a psychiatric nurse at the same hospital where I had once been a chaplain. I remember walking across the hospital grounds one evening, recalling how I had made that same walk years before as a chaplain. Back then I was thinking, “I don’t belong here.” That night, however, as I walked the grounds as a nurse, I said to myself, “This is exactly where I belong!”

Writing New Avenues and Looking Inward

I continue to make a living in healthcare, and I also continue to write. The point of sharing my sonnet is to show how the process of writing can help us to know who we really are, at least that has been true for me. My writing has taken the form of daily journals, personal letters, dream journals, essays, and poetry. The poetry that I have written over the years often has served as a kind of spiritual diary, recording where I was, what I was thinking, and how I was feeling at the time. Sometimes the writing surprises me by opening up new windows and new avenues. Sometimes the writing, as with this sonnet, helps me to see a bit more clearly how to live more congruently with my inner self and ideals.

For all who have an interest in writing, I say, by all means write! Don’t worry about whether it is “good enough.” That sonnet that I wrote all those years ago is certainly no Shakespeare or Dante, but it contained a true observation that allowed me to take a probing look within myself. Make sure that what you write is your true voice. You will probably learn more about yourself, and the writing might even save your life.

                                                                                                               Charles Kinnaird

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1.  From I Never Wanted Fame, by Antonio Machado (translated by Robert Bly), Ally Press (limited edition) 1979.
2. From "An Ordinary Life" at http://notdarkyet-commentary.blogspot.com/2010/11/ordinary-life.html

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You may be interested in reading these related posts:

• An Ordinary Life
• Any Tree That Falls: why creative people must create

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Favorite Moments at the 2016 Alabama Writers Conclave

The Alabama Writers’ Conclave met July 15-17 at the Alabama School of Fine Arts in Birmingham, Alabama. It is always an enriching time. The weekend was filled with information, inspiration, and good food. It was a time of meeting new writer friends and talking with old writer friends. I left with a writer’s buzz that took a while to settle down from, and there were a couple of especially memorable moments.

Open Mic

Open Mic became what I considered to be a sacred gathering on Friday afternoon at the Alabama Writers' Conclave. Eighteen people got up to read poems and stories they had written; each had three minutes at the mic. Hearing just a snapshot of other people's lives, experiences and encounters was moving on so many levels. A sacred circle of time it was!

Exploring Imagery and Language

There were a number of helpful workshops for poetry, memoir, fiction, and creative nonfiction.  In one of the sessions, "Exploring Imagery and Language in Poetry,"  Shanti Weiland led us in examining some of the "challenges of anchoring abstractions with concrete language." The most memorable piece we read in that workshop was one by Billy Collins, former U.S. poet laureate:

 

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light

like a color slide

                 

or press an ear against its hive.

               

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room

and feel the walls for a light switch.

                 

I want them to waterski

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author's name on the shore.

                

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

                

They begin beating it with a hose

to find out what it really means.

                                             ~ Billy Collins







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Friends Writing Good Books: Rick Watson

Life Changes: Enjoy the Ride

Rick Watson
(Photo from author's website)

I met Rick Watson a few years back at the Alabama Writer's Conclave. I found out that he was a blogger, which interested me because I had just begun my Not Dark Yet blog about six months before. Rick's wife Jilda also blogs, so we all got more acquainted, following each other's blogs. I soon found out that Rick grew up in West Jefferson where my wife grew up, and that he has a home spun manner about the stories he tells. He writes a weekly column for The Daily Mountain Eagle in Jasper, Alabama and has had articles featured in other newspapers in the region, including 280 Living, The Tannehill Trader, and 78 Magazine. Rick also does freelance writing for Village Living in Mountain Brook, The Hoover Sun, and The Homewood Star.

Life Changes: Just Breathe, is a collection of some of his best columns, and it is actually his third collection of essays. When Life Changes was about to hit the press, Rick asked me to read it and write a brief review for the back cover. Here is what I wrote as it appears on the back cover:

One of the best things about this delightful collection of essays is that Rick Watson shows us the value of an examined life. My guess is that you will relate immediately to the brief episodes that Rick shares in Life Changes. It doesn’t take long to read one, and then you’re hooked on reading the next. He may be driving down the road, sitting in the kitchen, or sitting on an old five-gallon paint can by the barn. Wherever he goes, he takes the time to reflect on life. Thankfully, he has shared those reflections with us. You’ll find something for every season of the year and every season of life in these pages. ~ Charles Kinnaird 

Rick has a page at Amazon which features all of his books at http://www.amazon.com/Rick-Watson/e/B001KDX1DE/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1

If you would like an autographed copy, he will gladly accommodate you if you go to his personal blog site, Life 101 at http://www.rickwatson-writer.com/p/books.html                                                                                                                                                       ~ 

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Friends Writing Good Books: Davy Campbell

B. Davis Campbell
(photo from author's blog site)

B. Davis Campbell (aka "Davy") is a good friend who has written a book about his battle with cancer, A Place I Didn't Want to Go. We both have a career in nursing at a large hospital. Davy is much more conservative than I, and I doubt that we ever vote the same way at the polls on election day, but that has never mattered because he’s a nice guy, a supportive colleague, and a great person to work with.

A Cancer Survivor

A few years ago when was diagnosed with cancer. We were all concerned, and we watched as he underwent surgery and treatment. There were days he had to miss work, and some days he had to go back into the hospital to treat an infection. Things seemed to resolve for Davy following his treatment except that he had to make some adjustments due to his surgery, but he never stopped working and never shirked any of his duties.

While he had was going through his cancer ordeal, Davy had other stressors on the home front which would have been devastating to me, yet he kept on going. Once life seemed to stabilize, cancer was discovered in his lymph nodes. He found himself battling cancer again, this time going through a grueling series of chemotherapy treatments. He lost weight, lost all of his hair, battled extreme nausea and, of course, there were more hospital admissions. Even so, he continued right on with his duties at work. On good days, he was right there with his thin, bald self, carrying on with his work day. On bad days, he just kept on keeping on.

An Everyday Hero

Fortunately, he now has his weight and his hair back, and he is carrying on with his normal life. Something occurred to me one day back when he was in the middle of his cancer treatment. He was thin, pale and bald from chemotherapy and as he went past the nurses’ station to talk with a patient’s family I realized that Davy had become one of heroes, and I knew exactly why.  He had encountered some of the biggest calamities I could imagine within the course of a couple of years. That day I realized that if I ever found myself facing unbelievable trials and wondering if I could even make it, I would have Davy’s example to assure me that I can indeed carry on.

One day at work, as we found ourselves in a conversation about life and illness – one of those three-minute interludes in the course of a busy day – I said it out loud right there at the nurse’s station, “Davy, you are my hero.” And I told him exactly why – because of his example. Having seen what he had endured would give me hope in anything I may have to face down the road. I’ll know I can do it because I saw him do it.

Davy just took that comment in stride and we both then proceeded with the business at hand. I am glad to have had many days since then carrying on our business at hand – caring for patients on a busy hospital floor.

Telling his Own Story

I have given you my recollection and my connection with Davy Campbell. Fortunately, Davy has written his own account, detailing his battle with cancer in A Place I Didn't Want to Go: My Victory Over Cancer. He offers an inside look at cancer treatment, and also shares how he was able to draw upon his faith while facing the trials and uncertainties of his illness.  He states that in 2006 “My chances of living five years per my oncologist were 15-20%. I have now been declared cured of cancer and relish the life that God has given me.”  Davy also has a blog, Overcoming Cancer at http://cancerovercomer.blogspot.com/.

                                                     

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Writing Tips: Haibun

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This is the third and final installment (for now) of Writing Tips from the Gifts of a Wordsmith poetry workshop led by Tina Mozzelle Braziel* at the Birmingham Public Library. I have used “Writing Tips” as a means of celebrating National Poetry Month and also for celebrating the local opportunities we have to learn more about poetry. The poetry workshops continue, on the first and third Tuesdays of each month, in the first floor conference room at Birmingham Central Library downtown.

Writing Haibun

For a couple of years now, I have been writing haiku on my blog, with a new poem each Saturday. That endeavor began when I received so much reader interest in a post about writing haiku. Later, I increased my knowledge of haiku and posted what I had learned in Notes from a Haiku Workshop.  I was not acquainted with the haibun genre, however, until it was covered in a session led by Tina Braziel at the Gifts of a Wordsmith poetry workshop.

The haibun is a genre that combines prose and haiku. It was developed by the famous 17^th century Japanese poet Matsuo Bashō.   Bashō was a master of the art of haiku, and would often use the haibun form for what me might call a travel log today. He would write brief accounts of his journeys accompanied by a haiku.

In writing haibun, there is a brief prose reflection followed by a haiku. The haiku and the prose will serve to enhance one another, but each could stand on its own. In other words, they are related, but the haiku does not repeat the prose, and the prose does not explain the haiku.  

Here is one example of a haibun that I found online at Poetry Form – the Haibun: 

    Missing Man

   

    Mid-November after I rake the leaves I stand at Central and First,

    holding the Stars and Bars. All of them died in Nam — my brother Joe,

    my cousin Freddy, mom's youngest brother Jack. Sometimes I just have

    to come out on the streets and stand with my flag. There's no parade.

   

            The smell of burning

            could be diesel

            could be napalm

                               First published in Frogpond 34:1 (Winter, 2011)

So that evening at the poetry workshop, after Tina explained haibun and offered some examples, we each set out to write our own. I was impressed with the work that came from that small group. When I went home, such was my enthusiasm that I shared my first haibun with my wife and had to tell her about others that were written and shared that night.

When I first wrote about haiku on my blog, I did so with the intent of encouraging others to get involved with writing poetry. I saw the haiku as a form that anyone can write. Moreover, it can become a kind of meditative process to allow the writer to pay attention to his or her surroundings. I think the same is true of the haibun form. It is a form that anyone can begin with and it provides some structure for meaningful poetic expression.

For a more detailed introduction to haibun, see Writing and Enjoying Haibun, by Mary Mageau

Tomorrow, I will share a new haibun that I have written, Portal.

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*Note: Tina Mozelle Braziel and Alicia Clavell lead Gifts of a Wordsmith, an adult poetry workshop and Birmingham's Central Library downtown on the first and third Tuesdays of each month. It is free and open to the public. Tina Braxiel is also the director of a creative writing program for high school students which will take place in June, in connection with the UAB English Department. Check out the details at http://www.uab.edu/cas/english/about-us/events-and-series/ada-long-creative-writing-workshop

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Writing Tips: The Dramatic Monologue

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(Notes from a Poetry Workshop)

During the month of April, in celebration of National Poetry Month, I will be sharing a few writing tips that I have been fortunate to learn from Tina Mozelle Braziel who leads a poetry workshop at the Birmingham Public Library*. The workshop meets the first and third Tuesday of each month from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. Because of my work schedule, I am not able to attend every time, but each time I do, I find it very helpful and stimulating.

Last week, Tina introduced us to the dramatic monologue. In the dramatic monologue, she told us, the poet speaks in the voice of someone else. The idea is to write from the point of view of someone who is known – an historical figure, a figure from literature, a biblical character, etc. “You can even choose a cartoon character,” she told us. Often a dramatic monologue begins in a normal fashion, then “gets weird.” She mentioned “My Last Duchess,” by Robert Browning as an example of the monologue getting weird.

To begin our writing exercise, we were asked to think of a well known character. For some reason, in our group that night we all latched onto cartoon characters. Once we picked a character whose voice we would speak from, we were instructed to write down some things associated with that character: objects, landscape, sights, sounds, anything that appealed to the senses that we connected with that character.

Once we had a list of things associated with our character, we were told to think about dreams. There are many different kinds of dreams – falling dreams, chasing dreams, recurring dreams – and in our dreams, images can shift and anything can happen. After a brief discussion of dreams, we were given our writing assignment: have your character tell their dream in their own voice.

Tomorrow I will share what I wrote that night: Foghorn Leghorn’s Dream.

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*The poetry workshop is free and open to the public. It meets twice a month in the first floor conference room of the Birmingham Central Library downtown. The group meets on the first and third Tuesdays of each month from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m.


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What Beverage Goes Best with Poetry?

Celebrating National Poetry Month

“What beverage is best enjoyed with poetry?” you may ask. It depends upon whether you are reading poetry, writing poetry, or listening to poetry.  Poets have often used words such as “intoxicating,” or “elixir” when speaking of poetry and its inspiration.  If you are setting out to write a poem, however, I find that it is best to refrain from alcohol until after the poem is completed.  Celebrate a poem afterwards with champagne, if you will, but a bit of the bubbly taken before the task is done will more likely prompt you to nap rather than write. You can commune with a friend over wine, but the muse has no patience for the winebibber.

My personal preference is to be wide awake in the presence of poetry. Therefore, coffee or tea is better suited for the occasion. When writing poetry, however, you must realize that once you begin to write, any hot beverage will become cold before you know it. You see, time is of no consequence to the muse. She knows how to stretch time so that a moment inhabits the same space as an hour.  She can also do the reverse – she can wad time up into a ball, toss it around and wave it in front of you until you can hold eternity in an hour, as William Blake said. By then, your coffee is quite cold, but that doesn’t matter, because you forgot all about it. Your mind was quickened to the point that stimulants became passé. 

Cold beverages are suitable, but in a similar manner, ice melts in the presence of poetry leaving a lukewarm glass in front of you, and if you live in the humid South, there will also be condensation all over the glass which will soon be flowing in small eddies across the table. All of this could result in a wet manuscript if you still work with paper and pen. I suppose it could also short out your keyboard if you are not careful.  So if you are planning to write poetry, I would not recommend Coke, Pepsi, ice tea, or any other cold beverage.

So far we have ruled out alcoholic beverages, hot beverages, and all iced drinks.  If you must drink and write, tap water may be the best solution (pun not intended, but it works well now that I think of it).  That way you have libation at hand when you need it, it will not dull the senses nor will its essence be affected by room temperature.

If you are reading poetry, then any beverage will do, but here again there are a couple of mitigating factors. If you are reading quietly to yourself, then make your own choice and drink whatever you will. If you are reading aloud and in public, then there are some constraints.  Alcohol, at least in excess will not do you any good before an audience. I had a friend who was invited to read some of his poetry to a college class. He was a dedicated poet, but he had never had the opportunity to read his poems in public. He was excited about it, but the more he thought about it, the more nervous he became.  He decided to have a few drinks ahead of time to calm his nerves. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find the classroom until everyone had already gone – which turned out to be a good thing, because he was too sauced to manage a public reading at that point. I’m sorry, but as intoxicating as poetry can be, it should never require a designated driver.

When reading in public, you certainly may have a little water beforehand to moisten your lips so that you can enunciate clearly. You may even have a bit of water on hand if you think you will get nervous and dry-mouthed, just be careful how you manage it. After all, Senator Marco Rubio went from presidential hopeful to fodder for late night comedians the way he chugged water during a televised political speech. Poetry is much more important than politics, so don’t do that in a poetry reading – unless you are reading limericks and want to add some physical comedy.

Finally, if you are listening to poetry, by all means drink whatever you please (but please drink responsibly). In fact, often at public poetry readings there will be a variety of beverages and even some crackers and cheese available. Poets like for their audience to enjoy the evening even if attendees forget to listen and must resort to clapping politely and saying afterward, “What a gift you have!”

So there you have it. It is not as simple as one might imagine, planning what beverage to have with poetry. Just remember the distinctions between reading, listening and writing. And please, always keep the door open for the muse. Without her, you are just drinking for the sake of drinking.

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Wendell Berry: Poet, Prophet, and Sage

It was 30 years ago that a colleague gave me a little book of poems, A Part, by Wendell Berry. I was teaching English at Hong Kong Baptist College at the time. Reading Berry’s poems that were nestled so beautifully in the rural Kentucky woods and hillsides reminded me of my own experiences in rural Alabama. It was a most refreshing experience for me, being far from home and in the center of a crowded and noisy urban setting.  That book was also my introduction to Wendell Berry.  For all I knew, he was a Kentucky farmer who wrote some poetry, and I thought that was a wonderful thing.

Of course, I came to learn that Wendell Berry was also known for his advocacy for the family farm, for care of the environment, and for speaking out against the inhuman machine of modern technology. I learned that he was a prolific writer, writing novels, short stories and essays that call for a return to community, and a care for the land. His advocacy was not just sentimental tripe, it was an honest, carefully thought out, sensible call for sensible living. I learned that this rural Kentucky farmer had gone off to a successful career as a university professor and then returned to his farming roots when he bought farmland near his parents’ birthplace.  

He was an early activist speaking out against the war in Viet Nam and protested the building of a nuclear power plant in Indiana.  He is an observer of life who speaks out on issues that are destroying the fabric of society – issues such as pollution, destruction of topsoil, corporate mechanized farming, the breaking up of the rural community in service to technology and industry. Little wonder that he has been called a modern day prophet.

Naturally, when I heard that Wendell Berry was coming to my town, speaking at my alma mater, I made it a point to be there. Many others made it a point to be there. I entered the large performance hall at Samford University as Wayne Flynt was delivering the introduction. There were all kinds of people present: young and old, physicians and professors, community residents and college students, activists and law students, writers and farmers.  As Wendell Berry walked on to the stage following the introduction, there was not just applause, there were shouts and cheers.

The man looked and spoke exactly like the old men I grew up with. His plain spoken Kentucky drawl belied the fact that he has spoken to eager and receptive audiences all over the country, from Lindisfarne Association in Long Island, New York to the San Francisco Zen Center’s Green Gulch Farm, and all points in between.

Mr. Berry read a recent story, “Sold!” set in the fictional town of Port William where much of his fiction takes place (That Distant Land is a wonderful collection of short stories set in rural Kentucky in and around Port William). The reading demonstrated Berry’s masterful storytelling. By way of the reminiscences of and elderly lady, we heard about that character’s life of farming with her late husband, Grover.  We got a picture of what rural life was like from the 1920s, how WWII changed the dynamic of the family and community, and how the young folks began to leave home for places far and wide. We saw a clear dramatic picture, told in the homespun matter-of-fact style of a simple farm woman who in her old age must sell her farm, of how in a couple of generations the family farm has been obliterated to make way for the corporate farming conglomerate.

After reading the story, Mr. Berry took questions from the audience. The questions presented showed the variety of the audience and the vast expanse of Wendell Berry’s influence. The first question was from a man who wanted to know the author’s thoughts on how we will feed a world population which will reach 9 billion by the year 2050. A young woman then stepped forward to ask Berry how he developed his characters for his stories; did he have a certain method for crafting his stories? Another fellow wanted to know his thoughts on theology and eternity.  Someone else wanted to know how Mr. Berry got interested in writing and what writers were important for him. The final question came from a man who wanted to know Berry’s take on Alabama’s Immigration law.

If you are interested in Wendell Berry’s answers, I did take some notes. Here are some inklings from his responses:

Concerning feeding 9 billon people, Berry said that we were more capable of that 50 years ago than we are today. He decried the ramping up of technology in the food industry, the toxins were are putting into the environment, the loss of topsoil from the environment, and the amount of food on our plates that is already being wasted.

As to developing the characters in his fiction, he likes to wait for the muse, he does not have formulaic method. “I may have a story in mind, I may have it for 50 years, but then the time comes when I know it is ready to take form – I call it the muse.”

His thought on theology – Berry said that what he did understand of the Bible became much clearer when he took the Bible out of church and went to the woods. He said he understands the grandeur and beauty of something greater, and has a better sense of the eternal when he is in the woods rather than in a building. Mr. Berry then made reference to a poem, “Primary Wonder,” by Denise Levertov which he thought captured that concept. (You can read Levertov’s poem here)

How did he get interested in writing, and who were the authors who were important to him? Berry said the way to get interested in writing is to get interested in reading, and he credited his mother for instilling a love for reading.  He added that “there are many writers and many who are not writers who are necessary to me. Most of my life I have found the friend or the book that I needed just when I needed it.”

Concerning Alabama’s immigration law, Berry started out saying that he has heard more talk of religion in politics than he can ever remember hearing before. He said that if you are going to have religion, then there come the question of how will you practice it, and that all boils down to how you treat others. He said he would like to see all those folks so sure of their religion show a little more anxiety regarding society’s problems. He said that we ought to assess how much we really owe to the immigrant workers, because “without then we would starve.” Berry added that immigration is a complex matter that requires responsible conversation rather than slogans.

Samford University photo

Afterwards, Wendell Berry stayed to sign books for any who wanted so desired. I stopped by the book table and saw, of course, a wide range of topics in the books he has authored. There were essays on community and environment, fiction and social commentary as well as several books of poetry. I decided to get a collection of poems. For me, after all is said and done, poetry is the thing I always come back to. Also, poetry was my first introduction to the man himself. I found a recent book of poetry, Leavings (Counterpoint, Berkeley, 2010) and then took my place in line for the author’s signature. It took me an hour to get to the table where Mr. Berry was autographing. Even though the hour was getting late, Wendell Berry was kind and gracious – taking time to talk and listen to each person in line. I think he is genuine.

As I left the event and drove off of the university campus, I was behind an aging Subaru Outback that had a specialty tag reading, "Farming Feeds." I knew that the driver of that car must represent one of the many reasons people came out to hear an old man from Kentucky. I’ll end with one of Wendell Berry’s poems that I read just this morning:

LOOK IT OVER

I leave behind even

my walking stick. My knife

is in my pocket, but that

I have forgot. I bring

no car, no cell phone,

no computer, no camera,

no CD player, no fax, no

TV, not even a book. I go

into the woods. I sit on

a log provided at no cost.

It is the earth I've come to,

the earth itself, sadly

abused by the stupidity

only humans are capable of

but, as ever, itself. Free.

A bargain! Get it while it lasts.

By Wendell Berry from Leavings, Counterpoint, Berkeley, 2010

Form and Substance: How a Sonnet Saved My Life

The Sonnet

The sonnet is the most restrictive of

Poetic forms. A scheme is strictly set

Dictating poet's rhyme and rhythm, yet

He chooses it for lofty thoughts of love,

Admiring noble deeds, or saintly stuff.

Indeed, the sonnet always seems to let

Transcendence have its way so as to get

A sense of freedom. Thus we see it prove

To be the highest, freest form to whet

A true Poetic. Often when I see

The bounds within which I must find my way,

(The cold collective spreads its mindless net

And freedom seems to fade) I wish to be

A living sonnet soaring through the day.

CLK                                       2/82

The sonnet, like so many aspects of society, provides rules, structure and boundaries. We can find comfort in those boundaries we see in society. Boundaries give definition to what is expected and provide security in our roles. On the other hand, boundaries can be restricting and oppressive. We have common metaphors that speak to this paradox: “keep your hand on the plow,” “stay on track” are just as familiar as “he was chomping at the bit,” or “pulling at the traces.” Boundaries indeed offer guidance, but sometimes one must slip the traces or jump the tracks. I recently read some words from Spanish poet Antonio Machado:

Why should we call

these accidental furrows roads?

Everyone who moves on

walks like Jesus, on the sea. [1]

The sonnet above is one that I wrote when I was 28 years old. I offer it as an example of how one can be awakened by one’s own poem. At the time, I was teaching English at Hong Kong Baptist College on a two-year assignment with the Southern Baptist International Mission Board. I had graduated from seminary and had plans to go into ministry upon return to the States. During my first year back in the U.S., I was in the middle of a chaplaincy training program at a Baptist Hospital in Birmingham, Alabama. One evening I was re-reading the sonnet that I had written two years before. For some reason, I imagined myself as a 68-year-old man and a young man was reading the sonnet. The young man asked me if I ever learned how to be a living sonnet. The only honest answer I could give in that imaginary situation was, “No. I never did.”

It was at that moment that I realized I needed to get out from where I was at the time. Toward the end of my training, I was offered the opportunity for a residency as chaplain in the hospital. To the director’s surprise, I never applied for the position.

Finding New Directions

“Where will you go from here?” the Pastoral Care director asked. I had no clear answer, except that I knew I had to go away from where I was at that moment. The next year proved to be a formative year. I left the Baptists and found St. Andrew's Episcopal Church where there was a commitment to high liturgy and social service. While there, I found employment at St. Andrew’s Foundation working with adults with developmental disabilities in group home settings. The overarching ideal at St. Andrew’s Foundation was “normalization,” meaning that we would allow each person to live as normal a life as possible, with normal routines rather than being defined by their disability.

The home where I worked was a couple of blocks away from St. Andrew’s Church.  In those days, the bell in the church steeple would sound out the hours. The liturgical hours (Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline) were designated times of prayer throughout the day. This was a form that I was unaccustomed to, having grown up Baptist. While I worked with clients at the group home, even though those liturgical hours were unfamiliar, it was meaningful to hear the bells sound during the day. It reminded me to stop, if only briefly, to acknowledge that I was working within a larger context of meaning.

Even more than the liturgical hours in the background, the group home residents themselves gave my life a centering. More than teaching and certainly more than professional ministry, my work now seemed like real life. Teaching and ministry are both wonderful and needed professions, but my own strengths and abilities did not fully align with the tasks in either milieu. I was therefore not finding life within those structures.  At St. Andrew’s Foundation I sat on front porches and in living rooms of those group homes visiting and talking with residents who were limited in many ways, but they helped me to see more clearly what real life is about. All manner of assumptions were dispelled during those days. We were all learning each day how to better find our way in the world. They needed help with shopping, banking, household management, job training, and managing the conflict that arises just by living with other people. They were learning to have a home of their own, and I felt like I was finally home.

I would later recount, "It was at St. Andrew's that I came to realize that people who live with disabilities have something very important to say about what it means to be human. How we respond to people with disabilities says something very important about who we are as human beings." [2]
 

Nothing is constant, however. After several years of rewarding work at St. Andrew’s Foundation, I was also starting a family and needing to broaden my possibilities. To that end, I went back to my old alma mater for a degree in Nursing. My first job in the Nursing field was as a psychiatric nurse at the same hospital where I had once been a chaplain. I remember walking across the hospital grounds one evening, recalling how I had made that same walk years before as a chaplain. Back then I was thinking, “I don’t belong here.” That night, however, as I walked the grounds as a nurse, I said to myself, “This is exactly where I belong!”

Writing New Avenues and Looking Inward

I continue to make a living in healthcare, and I also continue to write. The point of sharing my sonnet is to show how the process of writing can help us to know who we really are, at least that has been true for me. My writing has taken the form of daily journals, personal letters, dream journals, essays, and poetry. The poetry that I have written over the years often has served as a kind of spiritual diary, recording where I was, what I was thinking, and how I was feeling at the time. Sometimes the writing surprises me by opening up new windows and new avenues. Sometimes the writing, as with this sonnet, helps me to see a bit more clearly how to live more congruently with my inner self and ideals.

For all who have an interest in writing, I say, by all means write! Don’t worry about whether it is “good enough.” That sonnet that I wrote all those years ago is certainly no Shakespeare or Dante, but it contained a true observation that allowed me to take a probing look within myself. Make sure that what you write is your true voice. You will probably learn more about yourself, and the writing might even save your life.

                                                                                                               Charles Kinnaird

_____

1.  From I Never Wanted Fame, by Antonio Machado (translated by Robert Bly), Ally Press (limited edition) 1979.
2. From "An Ordinary Life" at http://notdarkyet-commentary.blogspot.com/2010/11/ordinary-life.html

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You may be interested in reading these related posts:

• An Ordinary Life
• Any Tree That Falls: why creative people must create

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