The Quiet Work of Showing Up

Last week, I performed The Sensory Circus of Small Wonders at Schreiber Pediatric. I’ve visited there for several years now to perform, but this time was different — a softer, more surprising experience built around sensory play, movement, and imagination. I designed it with accessibility in mind, to welcome people with varied learning styles, as well as anyone who thrives in sensory-friendly, creative spaces.

Together, we explored a world where feathers drifted, scarves floated, and sounds happened gently around you instead of at you. It was one of those rare moments where the world narrows in the best way. Where connection doesn’t need to be loud.

Honestly, I think I designed it for myself, too.
It was a circus of wonder made by everyone in the room.

Meanwhile, the Foolbright Scholars are back at work on a new show. And as one of the scholars with credentials that are certainly enthusiastic if not exactly verifiable, I can say with complete authority that this is Very Very Important Work. I spent time in West Philly over the weekend devising with my pal Chris, soaking in the neighborhood art, admiring the fruit trees neighbors plant to share, and jumping when a rat rustled through some recycling.

Have you ever been to Bindlestiff Books? You should go. And get takeout from Mood Café while you’re at it. 

What about the Little Free Library Storytimes, you ask?
Well. The first one was rained out.
This month, I planned for sun. Walked to the park. Waited.

One adult showed up. He was “walking off a big lunch” when he stumbled upon me, sitting on a bench in bear ears and a birthday party hat. No children. Just the two of us.

And so we went ahead. He wanted to hear the story. I read aloud. Did all the voices. Turned each page like it mattered. Because it did.

There’s something strangely beautiful about offering everything you’ve prepared, even when the “room” isn’t full. Maybe especially then.* He was such a generous audience. So open. 

I’ve been writing poems. And reading them.
Writing them feels like making a map I can't carry.
Reading them feels like finding a map someone else made and wandering through its territory for a while.

The most recent collection I've read is This Costly Season, a crown of sonnets by John Okrent. You can find it at Arrowsmith Press. The collection made me grateful for the moments of connection I've been able to have lately, but also aware that we’re still in a costly season, in so many ways.

That’s my brief update.

None of it is particularly glamorous. Much of it has been quiet.
But there’s movement under the quiet, something forming that says, “Keep going. This matters. Even now. Especially now.” 

--

*  Footnote Memory: After my first book of poems came out, I was scheduled to give a reading at a local bookstore on September 13, 2001. No one showed up. Understandably, given the events of two days earlier.

I waited anyway, with my young daughter beside me. And then a woman came in. She said, “God sent me.” What do you do when someone says that? You read your poems.

February's Foolhearty Give-It-a-Go

Everything is an experiment, including you. What a relief, right? Here's a little exercise I really enjoy. It's fine to try in in a public space (I did it at work and got a bemused chortle), but it's better to be alone to start. You'll feel less self-conscious and will follow your instincts rather than whatever it is your mind tells you. This a chance to let whatever feelings are in you now to have a voice, form, and movement:

Make a wordless noise. Any noise (don't overthink, let whatever bubbles up be the sound), and then after repeating it a few times, find a movement that goes with it. What part of your body instinctively wants to move to that sound? It can be small (just a foot, or an eyebrow), or your whole body. Make the sound and movement until you tire of it, or it turns into another sound and movement.

If you have time, write a little about the experience. 

How do you feel? Did any sounds/movements feel like characters emerging? Did you find yourself thinking "what should come next" or did you find your internal chatter quiet down? How does everything around you appear now? What, if anything, has shifted? 

Clowning and Goat Muck

While mucking out the goat shed, and peeling the fence out of its deep blanket of ice and snow today I thought:

The purpose of clowning is to make others feel. Like a good poem, clowning shows us what connects us as humans, what makes us human. That includes sadness, anger, boredom, belligerence, fear, weariness, humor, joy, lightness, disgust, judgement ...

 

 

Motivation, Play, and the Role of the Inner Critic

Sit down. Stop wriggling around. All of your ideas are nothing unless they are written down. It's useless for them to float around out there, or just live in your head. Stop moving. Sit down! Get it on paper. Who do you think you are, a dancer? Sit. Write. Sit and write it. It's up in your head, but that's not enough. Write. It. Down.

Words from my inner critic surprised me yesterday, and I want to give them some credence, because as harsh as the inner critics (mine are a consortium) can be, their words come from a place of caring. They are the great protectors. They are, in their own warped way, making sure I don't screw up. They want some say in my creative life. I'm learning to listen to them. To hear their side(s).

The inner critic who showed up yesterday during a clown exercise really wanted me to sit, and stop "juking about," and really believes strongly about the power of print. So do I. I love words. I'm here, sitting, writing some at the end of a busy day. I wrote several pages this morning, by hand, while it was still dark outside. I sat for that, too. I'm not all wriggly, all of the time. See? I write!

Something highlighted for me during this year of staying at home is that I have no motivation for anything at all unless I move. I need to move early in the day, and then and only then do I feel enough lightness to move forward with what needs to be done, or even what I want to do. It's been difficult to drum up enthusiasm lately, but playful movement helps me to keep going. It isn't "juking about." It's serious business. It generates energy, and gets my neurons connecting. I get some of my best ideas during my  movement practice. Functional movement outdoors, like stacking firewood or taking care of livestock also makes me feel lighter, unless the goats escape and then I swear a lot.

I'm listening to this inner critic, and considering some projects, and reflecting on what needs to be written. It's making me powerfully antsy, to be honest, sitting here and writing about it all, to essentially no one other than myself. Am I trying to just shine this inner critic on, and convince them I'm doing something when I'm not? I'm tired of sitting and thinking about it, and feeling like I need to justify my need to move everyday to feel motivation, even if it's true.

Am I losing my mind? Perhaps. This seems like a perfectly fine segue into a broken vacuum cleaner being used as a puppet.

A few weeks ago our vacuum broke. Instead of throwing away the broken part, I hung onto it. A found puppet was born, and Helen and I took it around the house for some experimenting. We did a lot of laughing. It felt good just to play without any intention of a finished product. It was energizing. It made me feel lighter. Play first, write later.

 If you can't view the video below, please click on "web view" from your phone to view it.