Journaling Group at Crystal Bridges 2015

The Journaling Group found inspiration from Beat Poets who surrounded the Abstract Expressionist movement of the 1950s.  After WWII, young women and men were into mind altering drugs to get a new prospective.  They wanted to find an identity.  Between the wars, the writing and poetry expressed dissatisfaction with the world around the poets but the beat poets were looking inward.  Using free verse and using language in new ways - sort of like Jazz. 

The movement began with Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, John Chellon Holmes and others.  Some on the east coast and some on the west coast.  Holmes came up with the term "beat".  The Beat Generation lived life in the fringe - Beat Down but Up Beat.  Beat Poets saw themselves as literary figures.  They wrote poems that an audience could get into easily. Performance was a big part of the poetry and the rhythm or beat was more important then actual connection to reality.  The Professor read some examples of Beat poetry and then we went into the Van Gogh to Rothko Exhibition. 

Inspiration: Self-portrait by Frida Kahlo, Frida with Monkey. and the poem below by Gary Snyder..

Siwashing It Out Once in Suislaw Forest

Gary Snyder

I slept under    rhododendron

All night    blossoms fell

Shivering on    a sheet of cardboard

Feet stuck    in my pack

Hands deep    in my pockets

Barely able    to    sleep.

I remembered    when we were in school

Sleeping together    in a big warm bed

We were    the youngest lovers

When we broke up    we were still nineteen

Now our    friends are married

You teach    school back east

I don't mind    living this way

Green hills    the long blue beach

But sometimes    sleeping in the open

I think back    when I had you.

             Frida

So strong,

Neck    like a column.

Living    as she wished,

Loving    who she wanted,

Painting    who she was

Hairy lip    and all.

Black    eyebrow wings

Frame    direct stare.

But if you    really look

At    her exquisite little jewel

Of a    self-portrait,

Beneath    the delicate brushwork,

The    subtle changes of color,

Of texture    of form,

You see    her pain

TWO YEARS 

Several years ago, at Crystal Bridges, new native plants all in a row.  There is something wrong about that I thought. 

• The Blue Flag Iris constrained, their feet not quite reaching the water. 

• The bright yellow Rebecca, fearful, trying too hard to please. 

• The Loose Strife's feathery white flowers tentative, not knowing what to do. 

• The powdery grey Globe Thistles peaking timidly out of the mulch. 

• The Wild Verbena's magenta blooms struggling to be brave. 

It reminded me of a young person still at school trying to figure out his or her place in the world. 

Two years pass. 

• The Blue Flag Iris fully developed stands proudly where it needs to be...in the water. 

• The bright yellow Rebecca, unafraid, a mass of bold color you have to look at. 

• The Loose Strife has come into it's own, learned to sway with the breeze. 

• The powdery grey Globe Thistles taller and a bit menacing...don't mess with me. 

• The Wild Verbena's magenta blooms are plotting to take over the world. 

It's amazing how two years can change a garden or a young person.

Butterfly Weed and the poem below by William Stafford.

Assurance

by William Stafford

You will never be alone you hear so deep

a sound when autumn comes.  Yellow

pulls across the hills and thrums,

or the silence after lightening before it says

its name - and then the clouds' wide-

mouthed

apologies.  You were aimed from birth:

you will never be alone.  Rain

will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,

long aisle - you never heard so deep a sound,

moss on rock, and years.  You turn your

head-

that's what the silence meant: you're not

alone.

The whole wide world pours down.

              BUTTERFLY WEED

It is called Butterfly Weed.

Weed? You ask when you see

the green spires, 

popsicle orange buds and blooms 

covered with Monarch butterflies.

Yes...Weed!

Taking over - in control,

unaffected by angry purple storms,

laughing at lean times.

Slurping up the last bit of water

with deep roots.

Surviving by dying back

and regenerating.

Flourishing where others struggle.

Doing what it wants,

holding it's head above the competition,

basking in the hot sun.

Needing no pampering.

Going on and on.

Weed?... Yes!

Sometimes...

when I have lost control,

when everything is working against me,

when times are hard 

and I feel like giving up.

When I can't do what I want

or accomplish what I want,

When I wish someone

would take care of me for a change.

When I realize how short

life really is and how fast

the end is coming...

I wish I was a Butterfly Weed.

• • Up until most recently, children's literature was primarily written to teach young children how to behave in civilized society.  In other words, they were treated like conduct novels.  

  • One of the major types of children's literature is the "absent parent figure."  Think abut all the children's stories where the parents are dead, gone, or simply ineffectual.  This reality, in many stories, allows the young child to find his/her own way, learn his/her own lessons, and mature without parent intrusion.  If you need an adult in the story consider a teacher or a grandparent to act as the "wise figure".

  • Remember most children's stories, especially picture books, have very few words.  Word economy is cricital to writing crisp, descriptive lines for your story.

  • Conflict drives all narratives.  What is the primary problem of this story?  It can be as simple as the character cannot find her crayon to something more complex such as divorce, war, or bullying at school.

  • Create a memorable, expressive character.  As you probably know, most children's stories are not subtle.  Your story must create a space where this very dynamic child/animal can explore and understand the world around him/her - even if that world is the inner world of feelings and emotions.

  • Pay attention to your own childhood memories and to the lives of trhe children that you see every day.  There might be narrative god in there somewhere.

  • Lastly, make it fun.  The great thing about children's stories is that they are often read by all ages.  Your audience will be children and adults that read the books t the kids.  Let the plot, setting, conflict, and characters be engaging and inviting.

Use one of these forms to write your Children's Story.

• • Didactic - Choose one animal.  Choose a particular moral or life lesson.  Create a story where the animal is primary teacher of this moral or the one who imparts a lesson.  

  • Mood - Choose one animal. Then, choose one emotion/mood that seems to permeate the piece.  Create a story based on that animal and mood.

  • Allegory - Narratives where each character functions as a symbol - a concrete object that represents an abstract idea (e.g. bald eagle = freedom).  Create a story that highlights several of the animals as symbols.  When writing an allegory, it's best to take the characters/symbols on a trip (e.g. Pilgrim's Progress).

  • Memory - Allow the piece to remind you of a childhood experience.  Then, invite the animal into that experience.

Which ever form you use, keep it short.  Play with language and invent or create new words if you wish. You may want to allow the animal to speak.

TINY AND THE BOYS

I live on a farm with a big red barn. There are four brothers - Tommy, Ted, Tony & Tobias. They call me Tiny cause I'm the youngest.  We play tag in the fields not caring if we squash the buttercups. I'm the easiest to catch and Tommy yells, "Tiny, you're it".  Once I'm "it" I can out last all of them tagging the first one to get tired and fall down in a heap.

We play hide and seek in the barn.  Ted says, "Tiny, you are the easiest to find. Sticking your head in a pile of hay doesn't hid you at all."  Funny...I thought it did. 

We play dodge ball on the front lawn with a Wiffle ball.  I can't throw it at all but I can kick it pretty good. Sometimes Tony yells, "Fall down; Pile up!" and we all fall into a big pile.  I'm usually on the bottom.

One day a big, silver, pillow shaped, balloon floated into the pasture.  It bounced along the ground and then floated up on the breeze.  We had fun batting it back and forth.  I butted it with my head.  Tobias laughed when I did that.  One time as the balloon came toward me, I saw a strange reflection.  I saw that I have a big pink nose, big ears that stick straight out, and my face is covered with brown and white fur...

"Yikes - a- moley!!! I'm not a boy like the brothers - I'm a calf."  I was sort of scared to be so different from my friends but they didn't seem to notice or care.

"Tiny, you are really good at this" shouted Tommy.  "I think you've found your game."

ALIVE

It's a painting of a woman wearing a cushy brown hat with a festive poinsettia on the front and green ribbons streaming from the sides.  A fluffy blue scarf completes the colorful portion of her ensemble. Add in an olive drab coat just to dumb things down a bit, a dark green forest background so she stands out, and a smattering of falling snow for interest.

Looks like a Christmas card at first glance...but wait. It's the woman herself that changes this ordinary scene into something vibrant and alive. Her excitement in the simple act of catching snowflakes on her tongue, an activity usually reserved for children, is so spontaneous...so exuberant that I can't look away.  She is slender almost fragile and is holding herself upright with crutches reaching almost to the point of falling to achieve her goal. 

Maybe her body is damaged but her spirit is whole and unfettered. Her simple joy is contagious and makes me smile because I have the thought that the artist has captured on this 2-dimensional surface a 3-dimensional woman who is more alive in this moment on this canvas than most people are in their entire lives.   A woman who is deeply loved by the artist.

Simple Pleasures - 09/14/2015 journaling group lead by Jake Stratman, Associate Professor of English at John Brown University.  Session included an opening discussion on how simple objects can inspire memories and the description of an ode.

The ode is a classical poetic form of lyrical verse that:

• Elevates the person, the object, or the occasion.

• Uses formal tone, diction, and structure.

• Includes flatteries, exaggerations, and claims for excellence

• Targets anything worthy of praise - Modern odes includes even the most mundane of objects.

• Is not controlled by a particular form (e.g. sonnet).

• Is not controlled by length of line or stanza.

• Contains genuine affection for the object; however, modern odes can use irony to put a twist of the classical tropes.

• Intersects the external (thing being exalted) and the internal (the poes's own emotions).

• Odes can be just as much about the poet as it is about the object.

GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN

Through the cerulean blue gate

into the garden we went.

Grandmother had created an

artistic masterpiece but at age six

I didn't know that yet.

All I knew was that I loved

the colors.  The big yellow sunflowers

bowed their heads at summer's end.

The tiny blue pansies with smiling faces

made me smile back at them.

The hollyhock's blossoms

just waiting to become fancy ladies 

when plucked and turned upside-down.

All this was so full of energy and fun

but there was one place that was 

different.  The "Keep Quiet Bench".

A blue bench in the corner of the garden,

almost swallowed whole by ivy.

When sitting on the bench, no talking

was allowed - no wiggling either.

A butterfly could be pointed at as

it fluttered by oblivious of our interest.

A column of ants could be interrupted

with a strategically placed leaf 

but not a word could be spoken.

White daisies became my crown after

a bit of grandmother's skillful weaving.

Then Princess Me would dance away

into the garden singing my made-up song. 

Tranquil Moments  10/12/2015 

Explore how an image can trigger a memory while viewing art in our permanent collection. This month we discussed various artworks of the late 19th century with John Brown University Associate Professor, Jacob Stratman, reflecting on images of leisure and tranquil moments as we recall stories from our own memories of a simpler time.

Romantics wanted to return to the natural world instead of the city.  The writers wrote about their own emotions - not scientific subjects.  Walt Whitman's work below is an example.

When I heard the learn'd astronomer by Walt Whitman

WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer;

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;

When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;

When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room,

How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;

Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off  by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

A RAMBLE

Any day was a good day for a ramble.  That was what my dad called our outings in his big. green, 1950 Dodge Ram.  We'd head out into the Iowa countryside - just my Dad at the wheel and five year old me in the passenger seat usually up on my knees so I could see out better.  The big machine hugged the road as miles and miles of flat corn fields slipped by.  The black dirt that was so obvious in spring was hidden now as the corn was almost ready to harvest. Somehow, we could still feel that wonderful dirt without seeing it.

"It's black gold.  It's deep, dark and rich and there isn't any dirt like this anyplace else in the world.  It's what makes the corn grow so good here in Iowa." he'd say over and over.  

I never got tired of hearing it cause I loved that black dirt as much as he did.  Where were we going? - I didn't have to ask.  No place and every place.  Today, Dad spotted an abandoned house. We pulled into what was left of the driveway.  Dad, always the gentleman, got out first and ran around the car to open the door and help me down from the high seat.  Then with him still holding my hand, we stood side by side surveying the scene.  The sunlight filtered through the trees and bathed parts of the house in warm light. Some of the trees grew right next to the foundation.  

"Those trees will eventually tear the house apart." Dad said.

I noticed the dormers and the gingerbread trim.  "Why would anyone leave such a pretty house? "I asked, knowing that he would have an answer even if it was a made up one.

"A farmer and his wife owned this land and they had a son."  He pointed to a house way off in the distance and I knew that was where they lived.  When the son grew up they built this house for him and his bride."

"Were they happy?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, he said - so very happy.  See the remnants of her garden over there.  The flowers were beautiful especially in spring.  She grew vegetables too and canned them in that little shed over there.  It was called a 'Summer Kitchen' and was used for things like that.  She used to win prizes at the fair for her pickles."  I made a face at the thought of salty, vinegar soaked pickles and he laughed and added,  "They were sweet pickles".

I looked at the pealing paint and cracked glass in the windows.  "She died didn't she." I said. It was a statement rather than a question.

Dad sighed and said, "Yes, she did and after that the husband just let the place go till he died too."

We stood in silence for a long time lost in our own thoughts.  Finally Dad said, "In the next town, is a dinner that has the best cherry pie."  I smiled cause I knew that if it was really good, Dad would have a second slice.

Travel Writing - Explorers - Journaling Group 12/14/2015. Historian and John Brown University Associate Professor, Trisha Posey, lead us in discussing descriptive writing techniques used by famous explorers. We explored how we might use these styles to write about our own journeys today.

Paul Fussell, a scholar of travel literature, once wrote: “Travel sharpens the senses. Abroad, one feels, sees, and hears things in an abnormal way.” 

Mark Twain, Innocents Abroad, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness...Broad, wholesome charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.  

Dr. Posey read Exploration and Description for Indemnification of Resources.

"Captains Lewis and Clarke, with ten men, went to see an object deemed very extrordinary among all the neighboring Indians...This was a large mount in the midst of the plain about N. 20 degrees W. from the mouth of Whitestone river, from which it is nine miles distant...The only thing charateristic in this hill is it's extree symmetry, and this, together with it's being totally detached from the other hills which are at the distance of eight or nine miles, would induce a belief that it was artificial; but as the earth and the loose pebbles which comprise it, are arranged exactly like the steep grounds, on the borders of the creek, we concluded from this similarity of texture that it might be natural...."

The group noted the precision, precise detail and felt it was a "report" and was a bit boring.

Dr. Posey read Thomas Cole, Essay on American Scenery.

"In the American forest we find trees in every stage of vegetable life and decay - the slender sapling rises in the shadow of the lofty tree, and the gian in his prim stands by the hoary patriarch of the wood-on the ground lie prostrate decaying ranks that once waved their verdant heads in the sun and wind.  ...in exposed situations, wild and uncultivated, battling with the elements and with one another for the possession of a morsel of soil, or a favoring rock to which they may cling - they exhibit striking preculiarities, and sometimes grand originality."

Dr. Posey pointed out that Cole got tired of hearing how Europe was so much better than the Americas and was painting a picture with words.  The group felt he used personification of nature and words like "alive", "virdant" to express the wonders of this new place.

Dr. Posey read Charles Darwin from "Voyage of the Beagle".  

"...there is a growing pleasure in comparing the character of scenery in different countries, which to a certain degree is distinct from merely admiring it's beauty.  It depends chiefly on an acquaintance with the individual parts of each view: I am strongly induced to believe that, as in music, the person who understands every not will, if he also possesses proper taste, more thoroughly enjoys the whole, so he wo examines each part of a fine view, may also thoroughly comprehend the full and combined efforts.  Hence, a traveler should be a botanist, for in all views plants from the chief embellishments."

The group felt that Darwin wanted Travel Writers to be scientific about plants and animals but disagreed that it was necessary to be scientific to appreciate nature.

Dr Posey said all travel writers are trying to express the new things they are feeling, seeing, and experiencing.  She said that D.H. Lawrence described standing alone on a road in Sardinia this way.

"Wonderful to go out on a frozen road...Wonderful the bluish, cold air, and the things standing up in a cold distance...I am so glad, on this lonely naked road, I don'6t know what to do with myself."

The group was a bit confused by this I think but in the end agreed that emotion could play a part in travel writing.  

BIG RED

When I was six years old, I owned the fastest sled in the neighborhood.  I'm not bragging - just stating a fact. It was big and old and my grandfather had saved it from a trash heap, sanded the runners, replaced a broken piece of wood, and painted it bright red.  At first I felt a bit ashamed of the sled cause it wasn't new and shiny like my friend's sleds but soon I found out that "Big Red" as I affectionately started calling it was faster than any other sled.  I won every race which was great fun until I realized that my friends weren't happy about it.  I figured out that loaning out "Big Red" got me back in good with my friends but riding their clunky sleds wasn't fun.  

When I told my Dad about the "Big Red" situation, he understood instantly.  He told me it was, "A classic case of a no win situation.  You are damned if you do and damned if you don't and don't tell your mother I said damn."  That made me laugh...he knew I wouldn't tell.  "We need a new challenge...someplace where we can go as fast as we want and nobody will complain about it."  He suggested that the two of us travel around and find the best sliding hill in Davenport, Iowa.  

We set out the next morning in the cold bright air.  I was zipped, buttoned and buckled in my blue snowsuit with a hood. red mittens, red rubber boots, and a fuzzy white scarf tied over my nose and mouth by my mother.  I could hardly move in that getup.  He had on insulated underwear, his heaviest black wool coat, a red plaid muffler, black fur lined gloves, big black rubber boots, and his brown fedora with yellow earmuffs under it.  When we got to the car, Dad loosened some of my buckles and buttons so I could move easier.  I pulled the scarf off my face.  He kissed the tip of my nose and we got in the car.  We were ready for our journey into adventure.

Our first stop was Duck Creek Park which had gently rolling hills. There were so many people that we had to wait in line for our turn to slide.  "Big Red" was big enough for both of us.  Dad sat in the back with me between his long legs.  He put his feet on the steering bars and I put my feet on the metal in the middle.  I wrapped my arms around his knees and held on for dear life.  The ride was short and not very exciting so once was enough and we headed out to find a better place.

Memorial Park was a cemetery but it didn't have headstones.  Dad looked around and told me to hurry.  No one had slid down the pristine white hill at the back of the cemetery.  "I don't think we are supposed to do this." he said as he wiped the haze from his glasses with the big white handkerchief he always carried.  "I doubt the dead folks will mind." he added.  I was looking around but I wasn't sure if I was looking for a guard or a ghost.

We zinged down the hill so fast Dad had to throw us sideways to stop "Big Red" before we ran into the fence at the bottom of the hill.  Covered with snow we sat there laughing.  I picked up a handful of snow and threw it at Dad hitting him square in the nose.  He said, "Now you've done it." and grabbed some snow and smeared it across my face.  I jumped up and ran as fast as I could all the way to the car.  He couldn't catch me or so it seemed cause he was pulling "Big Red".  We left before we got caught.  

Fejervary Park had a long steep hill that ran a whole city block.  We had to wait in line again but it was worth it this time.  The speed we attained was truly terrifying and I didn't know whether to laugh or scream so I did a bit of both all the way down.  The ride seemed to go on forever.  Dad was laughing and yelling too and he said a few swear words when someone carelessly came too close to me with their sled after we got off "Big Red".  It was definitely the best hill in town but the walk back to the top was killer and after three times I was done.   My feet felt like blocks of ice inside my boots.

At home, Mom made hot chocolate and told Dad how we shouldn't have stayed out so long.  She went on and on about frost bite and how we could get hurt. Dad kept agreeing with her but he winked at me behind her back.  I wasn't worried cause he had said we would be taking "Big Red" to more hills.  He had told me we might go over to his old stomping grounds in Illinois next time.  I wasn't sure what "stomping grounds" were but it sounded like fun.