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One (More) Reason I Like Writing Groups and Writing Workshops
Because, sometimes, the written word is heard—and respected—in a different way than ordinary spoken language. I saw this regularly at the shelters when I taught writing workshops there. The men and women would come into the room for a workshop, sometimes pushing, teasing each other, heckling, some of it good-natured, some less so, and then everyone would find a place around the table. We’d talk a bit. Then I’d write an idea up on the board—a word or a phrase to spark the writing. The writing would begin. The room would quiet. And after those first several minutes of writing, when people were talking about the writing, or reading their writing aloud, there would be this different quality of attention in the room. A woman would read a poem. A man would read a paragraph. “That was all right,” someone would say. “I hear you,” someone would say. The written word, and the sharing of the written word, was almost universally respected in that room. I never had to give instruction in this, or remind people of this. It just happened. And when people knew that their words were going to be respected, then sometimes—not all the time—but sometimes—it was as if a new context had been created—and, into this new context, something new—some new piece of conversation—–could...
read moreHarry Potter and Lupin: A Healing Conversation [Part Two]
(This is a continuation of Harry Potter and Lupin [Part One]) It’s Lupin, a new teacher at Hogwarts that year, who asks Harry Potter to stay after class for a word. And it’s with Lupin that Harry Potter finds it possible to broach the question he’s been longing to ask. ‘Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just —-?’ ‘It has nothing to do with weakness,’ said Professor Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry’s mind. ‘The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.’ A ray of wintry sunlight fell across the classroom, illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his young face. ‘Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself. . . soul-less and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.’ Harry Potter, as you may well know, was present at the murder of his parents when he was just an infant. The trauma of the murder has left him vulnerable. It’s his point of weakness, his Achilles heel. And what Professor Lupin does, as perhaps some of the best teachers have always done, is to explain Harry to himself, provide him with a context which can allow him to make sense of his experience and which no longer requires him to feel shame. That, it seems to me, is one of the things that a healing conversation can do: offer the kind of context that can help someone to see themselves—and their situation—more clearly. And, in doing so, be relieved, perhaps, of a misplaced burden of shame. And this, I have no doubt, can be...
read moreSomething Different: A Conversation Between Harry Potter and Lupin [Part One]
Say that it happens like this. You are thirteen years old. Summer has ended. The school year is set to begin. You arrive at King’s Cross Station in London, and, upon arrival, make your way, with your traveling companions, to a solid barrier that stands between platforms nine and ten. Because you have been this way before, you know that what you must do next is lean against this barrier until you find yourself falling through—and landing—at platform nine and three-quarters. The train is waiting. You gather your luggage and board, moving with your companions down the corridor until you locate an empty compartment. You settle in. The train begins to move, heading back toward school, toward Hogwarts, a place which you love and are most anxious to return to. You feel the most pleasant sense of anticipation—for the train ride itself, this time together with your friends, the beginning of whole new school year. The train continues on its way, through the mountains now, then forests, the countryside growing ever wilder and darker as you make your way toward Hogwarts. All of this is as expected. It’s familiar, reassuring even. But then, in the middle of the afternoon, it begins to rain. The rain thickens. The windows turn a solid gray, then gradually become darker. One person lights a lantern and then another does, so that lanterns are lit up and down the train. Perhaps you feel the faintest sense of foreboding. In the next moment the train stops—suddenly, so that suitcases spill from the racks. The lights go out. You’re still trying to get your bearings in the darkness when the door to your compartment opens. A figure appears—a cloaked silhouette—with a hand extending toward you—gray and slimy and scabbed. You hear a rattle—its breath. A deep chill spreads throughout the compartment. Later, one of your companions will describe a feeling in this moment, utterly strange, like he’d never be cheerful again. But for you, the feeling is more acute, more intense, and more intensely painful, the cold seeping beneath your skin and down through layers of muscle and bone into your very heart. You hear, as if from a distance, a terrible screaming and pleading, and then. . . nothing. When you regain consciousness, you gradually become aware of your surroundings. You also become aware that none of the others in your compartment have fainted, nor have they heard the screaming. As the train begins to regain speed and move towards Hogwarts, you may carry the nagging suspicion that something is wrong with you, something terribly different, some weakness that the others do not share. What you may feel is shame. And it may happen that you want to talk to someone about this feeling but at the same time you’re not sure who to talk to or how to begin the conversation. But then one day it may happen that an opening appears. Perhaps a teacher asks you to stay after class for a word. And perhaps you sense a kindness in this teacher—a sense that this teacher knows something. And perhaps, well, you take the leap, find a way to ask the question that you have been longing to ask. [To be continued.] [And please note that the scenes for this post are drawn...
read moreAn Unwinding Ball of String: An Image for Writing and Healing
Consider this conversation, one which takes place on a porch in Los Feliz, California inside the novel, Jamesland, by Michelle Huneven. The conversation takes place between a young woman, Alice, and a Unitarian minister, Helen, who is in the neighborhood passing out fliers for a lecture series. Alice offers Helen a glass of Red Zinger tea and the two of them sit on Alice’s porch. They talk, one thing and another. At one point, Alice finds herself beginning to tell Helen, the minister, about a deer that wandered into her house in the middle of the night. Helen, the minister, interrupts. ‘Hold on.’ Helen held up her hand like a traffic cop. ‘A deer came into your house? I’m sorry, but you’re going too fast. And please move your hand away from your mouth so I can hear you. Please, start at the beginning, and take your time.’ . . . Now that she had a willing ear, Alice’s story of the deer unwound like a ball of string rolling down a street. This was the first time she’d been able to tell it all the way through, without interruption, and nothing she said seemed to invite dismay or contradiction. Helen nodded and sometimes narrowed her eyes as if listening to a familiar piano sonata or poem. . . Encouraged, Alice gave all but the most lunatic details—she left out the fight with her married boyfriend, her raising-the-fawn fantasy, that the deer had seemed to desire pursuit. Hypnosis, she’d heard, was like this: perfect recall with no self-incrimination. Take your time, the minister says. How often these days does any one of us get to hear those words when we’re on the brink of telling a story? Once a week? Once a month? Once in a lifetime? No rush. No impatience. No contradiction. No self-incrimination. None of the ordinary obstacles. A full suspension of disbelief on the part of the listener. And, in this place of suspension—a ball of string unwinding. And what (again) might writing have to do with it? Writing, I think, can augment the unwinding. Writing and then—perhaps—putting a piece of writing out into the world, and then getting news back that the writing is heard—received—can be a powerful way to encourage the ball of string to unwind, down through one layer, and the next, ever closer to the center. Writing can take us deep. Putting writing out into the world—and receiving a response—can take us yet deeper. This can happen anywhere. It can happen on a porch. For a year or two after I first moved to North Carolina, I helped form and then met with a writing group. The group eventually fell apart, but before it fell apart, for that year or two, one evening every other week, it provided a structure that allowed something to happen—the sharing of stories and a response to those stories. We always met at the same house. Her name was Alice actually, like in the book. We met at Alice’s house. And I remember a particular evening on her screened porch, this in the summer, at twilight, that certain quality of evening summer light, a dog barking somewhere down the street, a child being called inside for supper. This was in Greensboro, North Carolina. I was sitting on...
read moreWriting and Reading as Conversation: A Small Epiphany
Many years ago, when I was learning about the teaching of writing, I read that if you want to teach children to write and read as if it matters then what you need to do is provide opportunities in which words do matter. One suggestion for doing this was to exchange letters with children—to write them letters and notes—and then to invite them to write back. I found this idea of an exchange of letters coming back to me several years ago, at a time when I was teaching writing at Recovery House, a residence for men and women recovering from addiction. Each person in the group wrote every week, and, in addition to sharing their work in the group, I always collected the pages at the end of the evening and took them home with me. And at some point during the week I would make a cup of coffee, and read through their pages, and as I read through them I would often imagine their pages as letters that they had sent out into the world in the hope of some response. I drank my coffee and I wrote responses. Not terribly lengthy responses. Often my responses were brief. I wrote each response in the form of a letter, addressing the person by name, and trying to relate as clearly as possible what in their pages had spoken to me. I tried to write less as if I were a teacher evaluating the writing and more as if I were a person in the world, writing back. Often I got snagged by old habits—responding like a teacher—but sometimes I was able to write in a clearer, less teacherly, way, and I suspect now that those plainer comments were the ones that had a greater likelihood of getting through—of being received on the other side. I still have a milk crate filled with manila folders from that time. Here’s one of the letters that I found: Walter, Rocky really does sound like a great dog—if a little scary (for other people, that is). I can see the connection between you getting him and beginning addiction, both at a time when you were moving into manhood. It seems like there’s such a bittersweet quality to your memories about him. I can see how much you cared about him. Keep writing—Diane. Not infrequently, once I began writing these letters, I would get letters back. The stories and poems written in the workshop were themselves a kind of letter, but often, too, I got actual letters addressed to me. Dear Diane, This is just to let you know that as far as class goes, I’m not quite ready this week. I seem to have run out of time, so please forgive me. I really like your class a lot and look forward to it too. I’ve learned a lot about myself in your class and find that now I enjoy writing. Who would have thought? hmm, hmm, hmm? Thanks for being there for us, for me and those who stick and stay. I like to think that you’re there for the ones who hang in there, and not run, the ones like me. I’ll be ready next week and please forgive me. Ok? Ok! Love, Walt. P.S. I do have something...
read moreExpressive Letter-Writing and a Better Night's Sleep?
Last December (2006) a study, “Health Effects of Expressive Letter Writing,” by Catherine Mosher and Sharon Danoff-Burg, was published in the Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology. The study looked at what can happen when healthy college students write a letter to someone of significance in their life. 108 students were randomly divided into three groups: • Experimental group 1—students were asked to write an expressive letter to a person of significance in their life who had helped them • Experimental group 2—students were asked to write an expressive letter to a person of significance in their life who had hurt them • The control group—students were asked to write a letter to a school official on an impersonal topic At one-month follow-up two significant differences were discovered between the experimental groups and the control group. 1. As a group, those who had written to a person of significance in their life slept longer—they slept a mean of 7.1 hours compared to 6.4 hours 2. They also reported significantly fewer days in the previous month when physical or mental health symptoms prevented them from engaging in routine activities. Interestingly, no significant difference was reported between those who had written to someone who had helped them and those who had written to someone who had hurt them. Both kinds of expression—conveying thoughts and feelings to someone who had helped and to someone who had hurt—seemed of value when it came to health. And they slept longer. It’s an intriguing finding. I can’t say that I know quite what it means. But I can say that for a whole host of conditions—from depression to fibroymyalgia to treatment for cancer to the stresses and strains of ordinary life—it has been my observation, over and over, that sleep can be enormously healing. Something seems to happen when we sleep—a kind of deep restoration—that does not happen at any other time. So if a single letter like this could enhance sleep duration—well, that would seem to be of significance. [Thank you to Susan Bernard for sending me the link for this...
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