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Onward and Forward

January 2, 2022 by Cheryl Wilder

upclose of orange chinese lantern with blurred background of woods in winter — [See end of post for text overlay.]

Joy in 2022

It’s 2022, and I keep thinking of the word Joy. Maybe I return to it to move past 2021—a reflex to the news cycle. Perhaps Joy is the mantra 2022 needs.

Joy Joy Joy

It’s a beautiful-looking word with the tall majestic “J,” the perfectly round “o,” and the low-hanging “y.”

While looking for ways to spread joy, I found Poems of Joy, Hope, and Community to Bring Us Together, a compilation from the Academy of American Poets. Here’s a few of my favorites:

“When Giving Is All We Have” by Albert Rios
“Darling Coffee” by Meena Alexander
“[I wandered lonely as a Cloud]” by William Wordsworth
“To All My Friends” by May Yang

One way to pursue joy? (You know what I’m going to say.) Write!

Back in April 2020, I wrote a post on lyric poetry. (My most popular post to date.) It was early-pandemic, and I needed to find my way through the emotions of it. I shared my daily poems for a while. But you don’t have to show anyone what you write (and the content doesn’t have to be joyful). Writing for the sake of writing is pursuing joy—an inner feeling that endures hardship, a steady ship in turbulent waters.

Get started today

For quick reference, the tips below are pulled from the blog post mentioned above.

Tips to write a lyric poem

handwritten poem in cursive on plain white paper — “I opened the window / and laughter blew in–

Start with “I” –the subjective and personal experience.
Do something in the poem. A simple act you do often. “I opened the window.”
Think of something that relates to the act you wrote down. It could be another action or an idea, a whimsical thought, or an emotion. “I opened the window and the breeze brushed my cheek.” “I opened the window and my eyes softened.” “I opened the window, tears down my cheeks.”
Keep going, making associations between physical actions, ideas, emotions, or thoughts.
Try not to think too much, let the first action inspire the next action or idea, and so on.
Having trouble? You know the game where you say a word and another person has to say the first thing that pops into their head? It’s like that. If you can’t think of anything, go back to the physical act that you know. “I opened the window and walked to the kitchen. I sliced a strawberry and thought of summers with my grandmother…”

Have fun. Stay safe. Find joy.

Text overlay on lantern image:
The soil has moved
over thousands of years
to make way–there is no end
though the end draws near. We wash
each day our dirt
again and again
and again
we wake and sweep the front porch.

On Refuge: Keeping the House in Order

November 4, 2021 by Cheryl Wilder

looking up the base of a large maple tree at night with large white christmas lights wrapped around it

My focus this fall has been big picture thinking about my career trajectory. It includes a lot of organizing, outlining, and strategy. In other words, it’s a lot of feeling like I’m accomplishing nothing. (Ugh, I feel like I’m eating my tail.) But. I know I am making progress. And I listen to the knowing more than the feeling (sigh), especially when it comes to this kind of work.

All the long-term planning made it difficult for me to get into the nitty-gritty of writing this post. For inspiration, I looked at old blog posts and felt a spark from February 2020—the before times—and read something I forgot I wrote (such is my way). I started writing from the spark, and then the idea got too long (again, my way).

I’m looking for a Goldilocks moment here.

Someday, I will pursue the topic in more breadth and depth. For now, I think about “keeping the house in order” in three ways: 1) the shelter where we live; 2) the body we live in; 3) a hobby or art or work that gives us meaning and contentment (poems are a house I live in). Tending to these places–these refuges–keeps me grounded. I mentioned in July that I was feeling upheaval which I haven’t settled from, and I know it has to do with publishing the book. I like working on large projects and haven’t filled that hole yet. It will happen, that’s one of the factors in all the planning, but until then I need to paint (more) walls, build shelves, or work out. (I painted a rainbow wall in September.)

Alas, here’s a section from the blog post that inspired me:

The word “home” in western culture comes from the Old Norse word heima, meaning “at home”. In its inception, the word encompassed the house and the household: dwelling, refuge, ownership, affection, the overall feeling of the place.

When I think of how to build self-esteem or self-confidence, the words that define the meaning of heima make sense to me.

I am my own shelter; when I turn inward, there is a refuge.
As a source of affection, I am kind to myself, and therefore, self-reliant in times when I feel lonely.
I am confident when I feel ownership over my body, emotions, and thoughts.
It’s not how I see myself on the outside but how I feel about myself. Trust the overall feeling of the place.

When I work to feel at home within myself, I simultaneously work on how I feel in a room, in a house, with other people, and in society. To build a home within me is to build a home within the world. I take refuge, affection, dwelling, and an overall feeling wherever I go. As my body changes with age, illness, or injury, it’s like moving into a new house; I learn the quirks of the structure; I make changes to represent the old me in a new space.

On Poetry and Space

September 6, 2021 by Cheryl Wilder

There is no shortage of cultural and global issues to be part of right now. I donate, volunteer, and support. But I’m constantly at odds with where to put my public service energy, often becoming overwhelmed by all the options*.

I also get sidetracked, wondering if the space where others live inspires or suppresses them? I can’t help but consider: Can examining our spaces–our homes and communities–change our relationship with them? Does that change help the common good? Since 2016, my answer keeps coming back as yes.

Writers are told to follow their obsessions.

I’ve written posts on poetry and space. Posts that barely scratch the surface of how I think about the topics. I need more dedicated time to weave these threads together. Next week, I start a grant application, that, if awarded, will fund research on poetry, space, and architecture. (Friend and writer Rita Lewis is helping me.) I’m also giving a seminar on the subject in October.

When I first researched architectural space, I saw a pattern. Historians and architects couldn’t describe the space created by the built environment. Instead, they turned to poetry, as some of us do when we want to understand what we cannot see. The pattern was revelatory to me. Poetry and architecture touched a core identity I struggled with: the idea of home. I felt others could benefit too.

Gaston Bachelard, in The Poetics of Space, writes, “Come what may the house helps us to say: I will be an inhabitant of the world, in spite of the world.” And Louis Hammer, in “Architecture and the Poetry of Space,” writes, “Every building is a palimpsest on which are written countless poems of space.” People are inhabitants. As inhabitants, people create poems. You’re in a poem right now. What does that poem say?

*Pathways of Public Service and Civic Engagement

If you get overwhelmed when it comes to public service, read Stanford University’s Pathways of Public Service and Civic Engagement. From the website: “The Pathways of Public Service and Civic Engagement describe a range of possibilities by which we can make a contribution to the common good.” Then take a survey that might help you find your path to civic engagement. It was built for students, but anyone can take it–no data is recorded.

On Teetering

August 8, 2021 by Cheryl Wilder

Teetering. To teeter. To wobble, toddle, sway. From Old Norse titra, meaning shake, shiver. From titra to titter to teeter–an unsteady waver; indecision.

The teeter-totter I shared with my sister had a curved half-moon base instead of a teeterboard placed upon a fulcrum. Neighborhood kids flocked to our yard. Two at a time, we sat at opposite ends, rocking higher and higher, trying to flip the other person off. Everyone held on tight. I was no more than seven.

My husband calls them seesaws, as do most people. But a seesaw is simply a back and forth, a jarring from one direction to another. I can’t adopt the term seesaw. It doesn’t capture what happened in my yard–my first desire to float knowing there was an eventual fall. With every up and down, I shivered and wobbled. My head was swimming, unsteady. Excitement, anticipation, fear, triumph–teetering jolted me into an awareness where I wanted more.

What a difference four decades makes. Of bearing witness to the ongoing teetering in everyday life. The day-to-day preparation for the eventual falls. A building exhilaration with every rise, the tantalizing pinnacle. The hours of trying to make the right decision, of accepting other people’s decisions no matter how much they hurt. The joy in finding balance. Within myself. With the constant flux of the world.

My desire to float has not wavered. I just make sure there’s a soft cushion around. How far I am from my childhood yard, now that my preferred teetering is within poem-making. Where I shake and sway and waver, learning that not knowing is a path toward acceptance, an awareness that what I have is enough. And when I reach high and low moments, letting go is exactly the thing to do.

The last virtual book launch question answered.

Cheryl, how do you feel tonight, finally getting this story out into the world, via your gorgeous literature?

The book launch was deeply satisfying. To say that I felt all the emotions tied to “teetering” is an understatement.

Today, I feel something akin to the moment when one moves from teetering to steady. I never lied about my story. And yet, it’s not the kind of story one shares in casual conversation, or at dinner parties while getting to know new acquaintances. It’s a downer story. When I did share, it often sucked the air out of a room. So, though I never lied, I didn’t always share my full truth.

In my twenties, when I first started to write about the crash, I told myself that it was my job to write the hard stuff. Through writing, I could carry other people’s burdens. Let me do that emotional heavy lifting for you. And I wasn’t altogether incorrect. I’m a poet, after all.

With age, I learned I cannot carry other people’s burdens. My job is to help people feel less alone. And shame is lonely. In my experience, it’s an overlooked emotion that causes roadblocks in personal growth. In addition to obvious offenses (like my story), small offenses build up over time, unnoticed–a thousand paper cuts. Forgiveness is a remedy to shame. And yet, the path to forgiveness can feel impossible, especially when the person you have to forgive is yourself.

Though I dealt with the crash in my personal life, I didn’t know how to handle it in my writing. In my story, I’m the unreliable speaker–the offender. I crafted the book so readers could trust the speaker and see her guilt. You can imagine my elation when I read this comment at the book launch: “I’m struck by the trust you’ve learned to have in your readers, trusting us to see the humanity in your story and the connection we all have with tragedy.”

Now, I can talk about the book in casual conversation, providing me a conduit to talk about the crash. More importantly, writing the book removed a roadblock in my writing. I needed to tell this story, and now it’s told. I’m relieved the story is written. I have so much more to say.

Lazy Summer Days

July 9, 2021 by Cheryl Wilder

To have a writing process, one needs to be writing.

I kept up as well as I could during the pandemic lockdown amidst all the stress and added work of remote learning for my school-aged children. After the release of Anything That Happens, I shifted my writing energy to marketing. Now that I’m in the midst of summer days, full of disparate activities and routine upheaval, I need to get back to the writer’s chair. Yes, I am writing right now. But blog posts are all that I’m writing at the moment. And it’s not enough.

It’s likely I have said this before, but from what I know, important things need repeating. A sentiment reaffirmed by meditation teacher and psychologist Tara Brach. She talks about meditation as an act of remembering. Remember to breathe. Remember to clear the mind, focus on the sensations in the body and the sounds in the room. Be present. She describes the act of remembering as “waking up.”

Writing is the foundation to what keeps my happy, happy. I’ve always written first and foremost for me. I need the mental and emotional dump. Sitting at my desk, listening to The Hours soundtrack by Philip Glass, and writing poetry eases stress. It’s a place I am my honest expression, my “waking up.” And I’m usually good at feeding my writing process. This summer is different for many reasons. But I’m certain the pandemic, and the year that it consumed, continues to underlie all other stressors. I don’t have to read the news to know I’m not alone. Every therapist I know, from massage to clinical psychologist, is busier than ever.

Last month, I mentioned relaxing into the disorder of the summer. I adapted pretty well but recently started feeling like I was being ricocheted through the days. Just this week, I realized a crucial piece that keeps me grounded was missing: Writing. Today, I remember there is always time to write. There has to be. Everyone around me, especially my raucous children, is better off when I slow down and clear my mind–sometimes by meditation, most often by writing.

I feel better already.

Another virtual book launch question answered.

Where does shame now live (or hide, or fade, or die) for you?

When I answered this question at the launch, my first thought was the book. It was the logical answer. I had spent years dissecting my shame and studying guilt. The book became my container to place it all, polished and readied for show. But…

The more I thought about the question, the more I saw shame’s tendrils in my life. Why do I struggle with being an authority? What areas in my life do I still feel like I don’t deserve something? What more is there to uncover?

So …

I know I don’t wear a veil of shame every day.

I also know that I held onto shame for so long it changed how I see myself at a deep level. So deep that I don’t notice it–I believe it’s who I am.

Shame doesn’t beat me down like it once did. But, I believe shame still tells me I’m not good enough sometimes. Writing a book doesn’t cure those feelings. Sharing the book and talking about shame helps tremendously (like this question from the launch). And luckily, I have memory. Similar to remembering to breathe and remembering to write, I remember that the more I remain true to my honest self, the tentacles of shame will let go.

On Order

June 10, 2021 by Cheryl Wilder

closeup of fern leaves in an ordered pattern — “As a river carving her way I howl”

It’s fitting to think about how I put order to Anything That Happens. Since its publication, my daily life has unraveled. I’m scattered, or is it that I’m feeling pulled in different directions. It’s summer. Post(?) pandemic. In my family sphere, there is a lot of movement and growth around me as I remain stationary. I also feel some America Gone Wild vibes. After a year at home, the world seems to move in fast forward. And I’m drawn to clean out my closets. (Obviously, something I didn’t do last year.)

I also realize writing about the car crash was part of my identity. The story fits differently into who I am now that anyone can read it. Now that I talk about it. Now that I created something from the experience that will outlive me. I’m not comfortable in my new outfit quite yet.

My approach: relaxing into the disorder. It’s not like I have control over it anyway. And I’ll get some clean closets out of it.

More virtual book launch questions answered.

How did you decide which experiences (besides the accident) to include?

One part of decision-making was by process of elimination. Fear of sharing my story loomed over every draft of the manuscript. In earlier versions, I had poems about the role of architecture and a friend’s death by suicide. At one point, I wrote 242 pages of a memoir, a process that proved invaluable to the finished poetry collection. I added, cut, and rearranged many times. With every revision, I learned not to be stubborn while putting together a poetry collection.

Other decisions were more straightforward.

My mother’s illness and death allowed me to step up in a way I never had before. It was a time when I tapped into all of my experiences, including what saved me in the aftermath of the crash. There was a full-circle element to caring for her, and it made sense to have that experience as a large piece of the book.

Becoming a mother inspired me to become a happy, whole person. My eldest son is integral to my story of self-forgiveness.

After the crash, I tried to figure out how I came to make a grave decision. Naturally, I reflected on my childhood. I also became a mother, prompting further dissection into the relationships I had with my parents. I never wanted to write about my father–he didn’t deserve my attention. But his absence is something I had reckoned with during my twenties. The book became a fuller, focused story with him in it.

How long does it take you to organize a collection of poems? Was this process vastly different from your other projects?

Anything That Happens is my first book-length project. It took many years and iterations to get it right, including the 242-page memoir draft. If I were to consider the first draft of the final product–the one I sent to editor Tom Lombardo–the answer is two years. I sent Tom a rough draft in June 2018 and my final draft in July 2020.

I believe this project is different from future projects. It is the story I had to tell, and it was emotionally draining to write. Now, I get to tell the stories I want to tell. I have a focus and direction that I never had with this project. And what I have learned while completing the book will help me streamline my process.

Onward and Forward