I had a great time at Soulfood last night. My daughter Pearl invited a couple of friends,  one of whom has taken creative writing classes. With a little nudging, and my notebook, all three scribbled some quick lines and read on the Open Mike. Pearl’s spontaneous poem was about her music, and my friend Janet asked if she would sing — so we were treated to that, too. An awesome evening.

Jennifer Bullis’s poetry leapt off the page. If I haven’t recommended her book, Impossible Lessons to you before, I want to be sure to do so now. The goddess rules!

Before the reading, and at intermission, Jennifer and I talked about animals, kids, and teaching (she taught at Whatcom Community College for 14 years; I’ve taught about that long at Everett Community College). And we talked about writing. We talked about how, even for an established writer, writing every day is harder than one might expect. We let other things get in the way. My sister calls about my mom and I spend four hours calling doctors and Assisted Living residences setting up appointments and tours. My husband asks for help with a carpentry project. A daughter wants company at a movie. Errands, housework, laundry.

It must be guilt that keeps me from setting better boundaries. Writing is such a guilty pleasure after all and I can’t–not really–claim to be doing it for anyone but myself. Can I?

And then there are the other distractions–books to read or websites to investigate. These look like guilty pleasures in themselves. I can pursue them in my writing space, after all, and no one is the wiser. No one except me.

I was hugely surprised that my daughter and her friends wrote poems and read them on the Open Mike. And then I wasn’t surprised. There’s something so hugely satisfying about writing, and it isn’t just for oneself. It’s an unselfish act. It’s a gift to the universe. People make decisions about how to make money–often at the risk and expense of others–every day, every minute of every day. What if we spent a few minutes making poems instead?

Fifteen minutes, Bethany. Start with a single concrete image on the page. An hourglass, a stone horse, a thimble, a matyroushka doll. A fig. See what happens. See if you can push it a little farther, the image and the time. Go!

I found this in Marianne Williamson, Everyday Grace: 

“A human being is a part of the whole called the ‘universe,’ a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of… consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in all its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security.” -Albert Einstein

I am also reading Martha Bergland’s A Farm under a Lake, and thinking about aging and its indignities, its necessary–and unnecessary–losses. I am attracted to this idea of striving to widen my circle of compassion.