By Bob Chrisman
Trees hold a special place in my memory. I planted lots of trees in the yard of the house where I lived for the first 21 years of my life. The poplar trees went along the north border of the yard next to the gravel alley. They grew tall and then split in heavy winds. I learned that not all trees live a long time.
I planted a maple tree in a spot near the raspberry patch. Subconsciously I must have known that it would grow tall enough to shade the raspberry bushes and keep the sun from nourishing them. It took ten years for the tree to grow to a height sufficient to block the sun on the west end of the patch. By then my mother had stopped picking raspberries and selling them to her friends and neighbors anyway so she didn’t miss those bushes killed by the lack of sunlight.
My favorite tree was the Dutch elm that grew in the side yard. It provided solace to me in my childhood. When I was punished as a very small boy I would take my teddy bear which was as big as I was and carry it to a place under the tree, throw it on the ground, and lie down with my head on his chest and cry. The old black cat would come from wherever he was in the neighborhood and sit next to me and the bear until I stopped crying. Then he would wander off. I would pick up my companion and carry him back into the house.
That tree watched over me for many years until it died of some disease. All those years it escaped the Dutch elm disease only to die of some other cause. I sat and watched as my father cut it down and wondered what life would be like without a place to cry.
I read a book one time about the spirits in trees and how each tree has its own personality. My experience tells me that the spirits do exist. We usually aren’t quiet enough to feel them or hear them. No, they don’t talk like we do, but they express themselves through their movement and the leaves.
The cedar pines outside my grandmother’s farmhouse whispered in the slightest breeze. I curled up on the daybed on the screened in porch and fell asleep to the sounds of those trees talking to each other and the background conversations of my family in the living room of the farmhouse.
At the cemetery about a half mile from my grandmother’s house, the shushing of the cedar pines became the voices of the dead buried among the roots of the trees. No matter how hot the temperature in the world away from those trees, the air under those trees was cold as though when the dead talked they expelled the coldness of the world in which they lived.
The sycamore trees that grow in the park not far from my house spread their branches across large areas. The big leaves provide shade and shelter to all different kinds of birds and humans. People, with their bags of possessions, sleep under the trees during the late afternoon and early evening. People picnic at nearby tables. The walkers and runners appear to relax when they reach the shade.
In the winter these same trees with no leaves looks like skeletal hands reaching toward the sky to beg some god or goddess for the return of spring. The bleached whiteness of the branches against the cold blue skies of winter or the gray clouds that bring snow beseech some higher power for the return of warmth.
The sweet gum tree that grows in my front yard shades the house from the intense afternoon sun. The huge leaves provide hiding places for the squirrels and birds. For some reason no birds nest in the tree. Maybe they know that the wood is too soft sometimes to withstand the windstorms.
In the fall a leaf turns yellow, detaches from the branch, and floats to the ground. Soon the entire tree goes from the vibrant green of summer to the soft yellow of fall. Next the leave fall to the ground covering the yard in a layer of golden yellow and leave the naked black branches to hold the winter snow.
-Related to topic post WRITING TOPIC – TREES. [NOTE: This was a Writing Topic on red Ravine. Frequent guest writer Bob Chrisman joined QuoinMonkey and ybonesy in doing a Writing Practice on the topic.]
-Also related to posts: PRACTICE: Trees — 15min (by ybonesy) and PRACTICE — Trees — 15min (by QuoinMonkey).
Bob,
I remember when you wrote about sitting on a cushion near a window one spring (or was it fall?) determine not to miss the dramatic changing of the leaves. This piece reminded me of that, and how listening to you write about trees makes me want to slow down and enjoy the simple pleasure of a pine.
Thank-you.
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As I sit at the computer this morning prior to my morning walk, I notice that the leave cover on the sweet gum tree seems thinner somehow. With the heavy rains and high humidity everything has remained a lush green when normally the grass would be yellow on its way to brown.
The leaves on some trees have yellowing edges at though the shock of the water and heat have withered the edges, something I can’t recall seeing before.
Last Tuesday evening as the sun set I went for a walk up the street. I crossed the busy street and walked into a residential neighborhood. The locusts hummed so loudly I almost had to put my hands over my ears. It sounded liked a million ball bearings being shaken in a metal can until each ball bearing vibrated that metallic sound.
The locusts were hiding in the trees that lined the streets singing their evening hymns. Later after the sun set and I headed home some of the locusts still sang even though it was dark, but the crickets had taken over for them.
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This piece summons so many memories for me. I remember planting the oak tree in the front yard when we bought this house. It was so small that I brought it here in a flower bucket, now we sit and lounge in it’s generous shade. My father was a wood-worker and furniture maker and I was blessed with his appreciation of the feel and beauty of wood. Also remembered the plum tree whose comfortable limbs welcomed me when I was in elementary school. In a play about my life, that tree would be a major character.
Bob, I read what you wrote and am amazed that you were able to simply let your thoughts flow so fluently. I know that this process has to take a great deal of discipline and practice. I can appreciate the way you have actively striven to develop your talent, your art.
You are an artist.
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Bob,
I so enjoyed your thought provoking essay! The memories of trees I have known came to mind, one by one. My favorite childhood tree was the apricot in our back yard. Most fruit trees are small enough to have branches even a little girl can grasp. My father put a swing in the tree, and my little sister gave thrill-rides to her pet horned toad, perched in her pocket. Its mouth would open wide and she believed it was from the joy of flying through the air. I thought it was expressing terror at being so high above the familiar sand of our San Fernando Valley home. Our perceptions of life, be they of plants, animals or fellow human beings may range from one extreme to another…they all exist in thought.
Thanks for a lovely essay!
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What a sensuous piece, Bob, so full of detail for the senses.
Here are some of the words that hit me:
They grew tall and then split in heavy winds. I learned that not all trees live a long time.
Then he would wander off.
I sat and watched as my father cut it down and wondered what life would be like without a place to cry.
I curled up on the daybed on the screened in porch and fell asleep to the sounds of those trees talking to each other and the background conversations of my family in the living room of the farmhouse.
No matter how hot the temperature in the world away from those trees, the air under those trees was cold as though when the dead talked they expelled the coldness of the world in which they lived.
People, with their bags of possessions, sleep under the trees during the late afternoon and early evening.
skeletal hands reaching toward the sky to beg some god or goddess for the return of spring
leave the naked black branches to hold the winter snow
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Carolyn, thanks for stopping by. Some favorite lines from your comment: …the plum tree whose comfortable limbs welcomed me when I was in elementary school, AND
In a play about my life, that tree would be a major character.
The writing practice process that Natalie Goldberg teaches has allowed me to write as it flows out of me. Writing practice produces some interesting results that wouldn’t come if I couldn’t just let go. Try it. You write too and have lots of stories to tell.
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oliverowl, interesting isn’t it how large a part trees play in most people’s lives. I would be interested in what a 15-minute writing practice on trees would bring up for you if you sat down a wrote.
The line in your comment, “My favorite childhood tree was the apricot in our back yard” evoked a memory for me of Mrs. Edwards and her backyard with five apricot trees. She would pick all the fruit she could and then “hire” us to climb into the trees and pick the ones she couldn’t reach. At her age she had no business climbing trees. We loved to pick the apricots and put them in the buckets she provided.
At the end of the season as the apricots dropped off the trees and rotted on the ground, we kids would take off our shoes and slide across the yard on the rotten apricots until we had apricot gunk wedged between our toes.
All that from one line in your comment.
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yb, thanks for the recall of things you that made an impression on you. Sometimes I forget the recall part of the process and the impact it can have on the writer.
In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I did it with some of the comments.
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So lovely and evocative, Bob.
I read this writing practice a couple of times before I went on a 20-mile bike ride today through the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center today where trees abound. The specific words of your practice that stuck with me were: elm, bear, cry. Wasn’t certain why until I began to remember, of all things, how my beloved feline, Isaac, so loved the Christmas tree. He would sit under it for hours. Sometimes I put a chair next to it and he would sit there and just look at the thing. The last photos I have of him are by the Christmas tree. After he left this sweet world, I cut up that Christmas tree and scattered its branches beneath a large holly tree in my backyard. I placed the very top of that tree underneath my bird feeders where birds often still sit. Isaac would be pleased.
Elm. Bear. Cry. Spruce. Cat. Cry.
If one of the objects of our writing is to write in such a way that hearts are opened, you have achieved that with this simple practice. I miss Isaac so, as you know, but as I pedaled today, I loved thinking about him next to that bright blue spruce, his eyes — like his owner watching him — filled with wonder.
Thank you.
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I liked this piece a lot, Bob. You hit a common chord for a lot of us tree-lovers. I particularly liked the image of you as a little boy, companioned by that cat, while you cried under the tree. I had a crying tree, too, when I was a kid. Mine was on a neighbor’s lawn. Its branches hung down low and made a protected cave. I passed that tree on my way to and from school every day and often needed to duck inside its arms to sniffle – or sob – about something. I no longer remember what kinds of things set me off, except for Dolores who pinched my arm really hard one autumn morning. The tree seemed maternal to me, big and strong and loving. In truth, it probably was a young tree when I was a young human because the tree still exists and now its branches are yards above the ground. There isn’t any cozy cave under it anymore but it still looks welcoming. I like to think it knows me when I drive by on my way to the grocery store, that it nods, just a little, in my direction.
The other thing that struck me was your saying that the trees talk. Yes. They do. I’m sure of it. Often when I’m out walking or running in the woods, I can just about make out their words but not quite. Do you think maybe those of us who went to trees for comfort when we were children might be especially tuned into tree whispers?
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Interesting question, Jude, about tree whispers. I also love the idea of a Mother Tree — remember the one in “Avatar”? That was one big mother.
Back to whispers. The trees always seem to be whispering to me, “Slow down. Slow down. Slow down.”
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Oh I loved that mother tree in Avatar! Don’t you wish you knew where one was so you could go plug in now and then?
“Slow down, slow down,” Now that you mention it, Flannista, yes, I do believe I’ve heard those words, too.
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Flann, I remember how Isaac would sat on the back of the chair and watch the birds at the feeder. He studied them carefully, but I never saw him make a move for one. Secretly I think he wanted to be a bird if only for a few minutes. You were a great friend to him.
Thank you for letting me spend time with him while he was ill. He brought back memories of my black cat which came to live with me as child of three and remained until his death during my second year of college.
Loved the Mother Tree in Avatar!!! It was one of my favorite parts of the movie.
A friend told me to stand with my spine against the trunk of a tree and the tree would recharge my energy. I do that sometimes. I feel better and I don’t need to plug my hair into anything.
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Jude, liked the idea of “a crying tree.” Liked “The tree seemed maternal to me…” These days I think of trees as rooted in the ground and reaching into the sky and use that image to ground myself.
The trees down my way don’t tell me to slow down. The cedar trees outside my grandmother’s screened in porch provided murmuring similar to what I heard from the front room where the adults sat and talked.
The trees at the cemetery never spoke loudly enough for me to understand them. The dead people had been dead for a very long time and new graves rarely appeared. The newly dead talk more…and louder.
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Hey Bob . . . you were a good friend to the I-Man, too! I’ll always be grateful. And I never thought about him wanting to be a bird, but I like thinking about it. The last week of his life, I told him he was going in a space ship to get some blue shoes. I think flying was something he always wanted to do.
Tomorrow morning, I’m going to stand with my spine against one of my bird feeder trees. I’ll let you know what I hear. Don’t suspect that I’ll need to plug my hair into anything, either.
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I am envious. I could not do what you have done here in 15 minutes. I think the piece gets stronger as it goes. I particularly like the invoked senses and impressions in the sections about the cedars at your grandmother’s farm house and the wintertime sycamores. Keep this up.
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maybe if you don’t comb your hair before you lean against the tree you will have more points of contact with the tree energy…a good excuse not to comb your hair.
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If Flannista doesn’t comb her hair before pressing her back against the tree, the birds or squirrels may try to nest there.
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I love ANY excuse not to comb my hair, Bob.
I’ll give it a try. xoxo
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Thanks, Joyce. I think you could do what I did. I think most anyone could.
The timed writing process has changed the type of writer I am and still changes me. Quieting the inner censor may be the best thing it does because then I can write anything I want.
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Bob, tell me about quieting that inner censor and, even more, tell me how to avoid old worn phrases and find my true, genuine expression. I seem to always be caught between hyperbole and mundane catch phrases.
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I think Joyce is being a bit draconian (inside joke) about her writing, Bob. But you do make an excellent point about how writing practice quiets the inner censor.
As I read your comment, it occurred to me that trees themselves can quiet the inner censor and made me want to do some writing practice with my back against a tree . . . see what the tree might evoke, even if birds and squirrels take to nesting in my hair.
By the way, still thinking about: Elm. Bear. Cry.
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Joyce, the technique that Natalie teaches includes meditation (both sitting and walking) to quiet the mind and bring the focus to this moment in time, not spinning off into yesterdays or tomorrows, but here and now.
Writing without stopping, without thinking about what to say, without censoring what the mind comes up with comes from responding in the moment to the prompt. You write in the moment which may include things from your past or thoughts about your future but they are not things the internal censor can stop when you have practiced the technique.
And, the technique works for beginnings too. I’ve had my own personal experience at the beginning where I wrote some very raw stuff that surprised even me. I’ve seen it happen for others in the groups.
In NYC, one young woman who had never gone to a workshop before sat and wrote with me. The prompt was something like, “A walk I remember along the beach…” She wrote her piece as tears trickled down her cheeks. When it came time to read to each other, she wept so hard that she didn’t make it past the first sentence. She explained to me that she hadn’t wanted to leave the West Coast and come to NYC and she didn’t know why she had and she missed her walk on the beach and had never allowed herself to feel how much.
The quieting of the censor happens sometimes and when it does you will know from what you write.
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About avoiding worn out phrases and finding your true expression…
When you start our practice you will notice the worn out phrases and then find yourself creating new ways of saying things because you realize how cliched or dead your writing sounds to you.
I liked to write in the passive voice because I spent 32 years writing in the passive voice for the government job. You rarely were allowed to write in the active voice lest you offend someone in some department somewhere. Passive voice has its uses, but, in general, avoid it. That took months, maybe even years.
Another personal quirk of mine is the use of the verb “got” and the adjective “interesting” which tell you almost nothing. “Got” can substitute for lots of verbs. I started to notice the things I said repeatedly and my writing began to change.
I think the more we write, the more we catch those old dead phrases we overuse and the fresher our writing becomes.
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Bob – you ever consider leading a writing practice group in Kansas City? You explain the technique so well, use it so well. And I know how good you are setting and holding the space for a writing group, as you do it with warmth and grace for the four of us Midwesterners.
Maybe it’s time for you to teach.
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jude, the opportunity may come this spring to teach a Natalie Goldberg-style writing group…sit, walk, write, read, recall, repeat process. We shall see.
Thanks for the encouragement.
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Bob, what a great comment thread. I was on vacation up in Ely, MN for the LilyPad picnic. And right on the heels of that, Liz’s mom and brother have come to visit (and are still here). A whirlwind of activity! I’m so glad you commented about Writing Practice and Writing Topics. They stir so much raw energy and help keep us grounded to a practice.
I’m glad you might have the opportunity to teach Natalie Goldberg-style Writing Practice, too. There are so many of Natalie’s students who have gone away wanting to share with the world what they have learned about the practice of writing. I feel like ybonesy and I help spread the word with red Ravine. And many other students we sat with in Taos are out there teaching wherever they live.
I once asked Natalie what the greatest benefit of teaching about Writing Practice would be. She said, “It’s bodhisattva work.” Which I took to mean, service work, a way of giving back, spiritual work. I believe that. The benefits I have received from starting a Writing Practice and sharing practice in community with others are too many to name.
I, too, like the way you lead our little Midwest Writing Group when we meet twice a year. And I always appreciate your efforts in that regard. Thank you.
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Trees are always telling me to speed up. Damn trees.
As always, great writing Bob.
I love teaching people writing practice. I didn’t think I wanted to teach kids but it turns out I really love it too. You should see how funny kids are when they realize they’ve accidentally written something hilarious or surprising. Its really great.
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QM, can’t wait to hear about Lily & Hope. Sounds like quite an adventure.
Writing Practice is so much more than writing as you and others have noted. For those who continue the practice it causes a shift inside people. I’ve seen it in other people’s lives and felt it happen in my own life.
One of the wonderful things about the Midwest Writing Group is that we all know the process intimately. We go somewhere and fall into the practice without any problems at all. The effort on my part is minimal with three friends who know it all so well. Thanks for the kind words.
The two of you (QM & yb) do spread the word about writing practice and encourage people to do it. Have you heard anything from those people who aren’t Golberg students say anything about the process? Do they like it? Is it powerful for them? Not so much? What? I would be interested to know if you have stories you can share.
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Neola, when you told me that you would teach children how to do writing practice, I thought you would be a natural with kids because you possess a gentle spirit. Some of the stories you’ve told me would make great pieces to share. I can’t imagine where I would be as a writer if I had learned writing practice as early as I could write.
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Bob, your writing is personal and poignant. I can see you, the young boy, under the dutch elm with his head on the chest of his teddy bear, crying with the old black cat beside him. Your details are exquisite and though intensely personal, there is a quality to your writing that welcomes the reader in, to both your memories and their own, which is evidenced by the comments here. Maybe that is part of the boddisattva work … by opening to to your own experience, you encourage others to open to theirs and to our shared humanity.
I am in north woods of Wisconsin … all trees and small lakes. It is the grandmother white pines which speak to me loudest. They tower over the other trees in the forest, the biggest ones have trunks which you cannot wrap your arms around. I have hugged these trees, quite literally and stood with my back against them. I have learned lessons from both the white pine’s groundedness, deep into the earth and also from her reaching far beyond the others into the sky.
One favorite tree memory is of my oldest son, five years old and learning to climb trees. Hearing, “Help me!” I look out the living room window to see him hanging upside down in the old crabapple tree beside the house. He is not far from the ground, but he cannot get loose because his cowboy boot is wedged between two branches. Mom to the rescue. He kept climbing all sorts of trees after that … usually wearing different footwear.
Thanks for sharing your strong practice, Bob.
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breathepeace, your story reminded me of a time when my best friend and I were climbing the peach tree in the backyard. I swung out on a limb and dropped to the ground. Stevie swung out and wouldn’t let go because he was afraid he would hurt himself. I told him I would catch him (not sure I could have). I ran to get my mother who came out and grabbed him in her arms. He was only about 3 feet from the ground, but he wouldn’t let go until my mother wrapped her arms around him.
Moms to the rescue.
With all that the things you must deal with in Wisconsin, it’s nice to know that you have the white pines to renew your energy and to ground you. Take care.
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Bob, I love how each tree conjures up a different image or importance. I think that’s true for most of us.
As a child, I was always climbing trees and each tree provided a different challenge. As I grew older, I learned to stand back and simply admire the overall beauty. One of the most visually beautiful times for me was driving through Utah in the Fall and experiencing miles of yellow-leaved aspens. The thought of it still takes my breath away.
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breathepeace — thanks for the tip. I promise not to wear MY cowboy boots the next time I climb a tree.
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Matissta, when do we decide to quit climbing trees? (not that standing back and admiring their beauty doesn’t work because it does)
there was a tree in a park not far from where I lived in college that had this limb big enough to stretch out and strong enough to support me. I remember climbing that tree and spending an hour on that limb looking up into the branches.
The aspen leaves turned to gold do take my breath away. Mabel Dodge Luhan House sets among lots of aspen trees as I remember.
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My girls used to be fearless with heights, which I attributed to Jim being the one who brought them up while I worked outside the home. Well, recently they’ve been having a fear of heights, which I noticed when at a bookstore that had some free unedited books (pre published books that bookstores get so they can do reviews) for teens, the owner let my girls climb the tall ladders so they could each pick out books to take home. How did that happen?, I wondered.
And is that related to when we stop climbing trees? Is it the fears that get put into us, that we see our parents or others have?
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breathepeace, love that your totem tree is the white pine. I was going to do a short photo post about a white pine I was introduced to in Ely at the LilyPad picnic. Andnow I have even more incentive to get that posted! I think my totem tree is the river birch. But I am drawn to pines wherever I go because I grew up with them in Georgia. I always notice the pines: white, ponderosa, Georgia.
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Bob, ybonesy may have different insights into our experience of spreading the word about Writing Practice on red Ravine, but something that comes to mind for me (in terms of people who haven’t studied with Natalie Goldberg) is that they seem excited to try Writing Practice after reading our Writing Topics. Some will send a note, or link, or comment to let us know they are going to do a Writing Practice. There is another camp of people who seem to have already read Natalie’s Writing Down The Bones, or have it on their bookshelf, and are re-inspired to start up a Writing Practice again.
I think what I’ve noticed the most from the feedback Roma and I have gotten about red Ravine over the years, is that it inspires people to have a practice — ANY practice. It can be haiku, photo, mandalas, drawing, poetry, or writing. One woman recently told me she did not write haiku until she read our haiku posts. She writes haiku regularly now and is thinking about a yearly practice next year. Another woman is starting a BlackBerry 365 photo practice next year.
That’s something I learned from Natalie, too. It’s about the practice. It’s the spiritual practice and commitment that changes you. Another thing I’ve noticed is that people who have actually studied with Natalie Goldberg are afforded the gift of sit, walk, write. The physical presence of Natalie taught me a lot. How she handled individuals, groups of people, her own practice — what I learned settled into my body. I carry it around every day. I feel grateful to Natalie for what she has taught me. And I encourage as many people as possible to sign up for her workshops. They change you.
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A friend stopped by to read the post and sent me an email which said how he was amazed and surprised that I could just write and have it come out so coherent. We talked later and I said, “I’ve been doing timed writings for 10 years.”
As I thought about it, I realized that over that period of time my mind has become freer and more organized at the same time when it comes to writing without stopping. It happened somewhere along the way.
I thought the last paragraph about Natalie was great. I look on her as my teacher. She holds the space for her students to learn the practice. She sharese her knowledge and experience. The experiences do change those people who open themselves up to the practice.
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yb, maybe as we “grow up” we discover our fragility as humans and have lesss of a desire to risk breaking something or taking chances. When I was young, if I could get into the tree, I would climb as high as possible to look out over the world.
Today, if I made it up into the tree, I would worry about whether the branches could support me, but I would still want to climb to the top of the tree. I wouldn’t, but I would want to.
Maybe the ground looks much harder when we are older.
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Bob, maybe when we are young we are looking upward so much we don’t notice the ground.
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Joyce, I laughed when I read your comment. It seemed so correct to me. We are looking upward so much. Thanks.
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QM: I look forward to the photo post about white pine.
What you wrote about practice is so important:
“I think what I’ve noticed the most from the feedback Roma and I have gotten about red Ravine over the years, is that it inspires people to have a practice — ANY practice.”
Do you remember at the first session of the intensive, Natalie encouraged us to “pick one simple practice,” something we could do which would bring us joy. It was hard for many of us to pick only one thing. Some choices were joyless, but things that we thought were necessary to be a better writer, or a healthier person, or more like the teacher.
I don’t even remember what practice I chose that first session, but I loved my letter and postcard writing practice, which I think I started after the second session. I didn’t really start a haiku practice until New Year’s Day, before the final session of the intensive. My haiku-a-day practice lasted for years … that and yoga and my sitting practice. But, it is not about WHAT practice. To me, it was about cultivating discipline with ANY practice. The practice (especially one which brings joy) becomes both grounding and inspiration.
Thanks, QM & yb, for sharing your inspirational practice with the rest of us here at rR.
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breathepeace, thank you. I really appreciate your comment. I do remember when Natalie told us to choose one practice. Wasn’t that the same time period when she asked us to keep a notebook of some kind? Was it to log what we did toward practice each day? I think we only had to do that for a quarter.
Anyway, I remember that I chose to walk the labyrinth at the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet in St. Paul. I think I tried to walk it once every two or three weeks. I’ve walked that labyrinth in all seasons. It changed me. I heard recently that they moved that labyrinth in order to build something where it stood. I don’t know if it’s true or not. Haven’t wanted to research it or ever go over there, knowing it might be gone.
I started to think about all the feet and grounded energy that had walked the same path, in the same footsteps, and wondered how they could ever come to move it. It may not be true. I suppose I should go find out. Because part of practice is learning that everything changes. Trying to absorb the changes in ways that don’t harm us is part of the practice, too.
I remember your postcard practice well. What a beauty that was. I really admired those who stuck with it over time. It was difficult at times. But maybe I learned the most about myself when I didn’t want to do my practices. All that resistance…and what for?
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