Category: keeping the appointment

What Coaxes: Protests and Poetry

The poet Muriel Rukeyser once wrote:

 I will protest all my life . . . but I’m a person who makes … and I have decided that whenever I protest . . . I will make something — I will make poems, plant, feed children, build, but not ever protest without making something.”

Muriel Rukeyser’s words really resonate with me these days. The urge to protest racism, bigotry and hatred feels so urgent to me. And yet, my artist self doesn’t want to be left out. I figure it’s time to make something: a peach crisp that we take to a potluck. A remounting of Tennessee Williams’ masterpiece, The Glass Menagerie, at Richmond Civic Theatre with a lovely group of people. (More about that later). A handful of words that tell a story.

There’s tension, of course, between grappling with life-and-death problems and creating something tender and beautiful. It can be hard to justify making art when people’s basic needs aren’t being met. But I think protest and poetry alike can be about making space for compassion and humility, calling people out–and calling people in.

Both require moxie to believe in the possibility of hope.

Now, sometimes the art is clumsy and fails to connect to its audience. Sometimes it has a life-span of a mayfly. But it’s through the act of creating that we can imagine a different, better world. One that we occasionally can even dream into reality.

Here is a new poem I’ve been working on this summer. It’s my own way of grappling with what can coax us to open up to ideas or people or places that challenge us. I’d like to share it with you.

What Coaxes

A closed fist can neither
give or accept the gift. Can’t

clasp another hand
to hoist the body out of

its history. Won’t find the way
to a mother’s arm at midnight

as her son bleeds out for want
of holding. Or wave as

my car passes your truck.
And certainly not stroke

the smooth head of a yellow dog
who searches out violets after rain.

This is what Agnes told me
before describing her work with

prisoners in St. Louis
performing Shakespeare.

What entices small petals to
open April mornings or swing

the car door ajar to receive
passengers? This remains a mystery

to the mother who opens
her eyes without seeing,

words in blank verse neatly tied
into two hard knots that lay

in the lap. Fists the same size
as our beating iambic hearts.

What coaxes empty hands
petal by petal, tears and doors?

What act of surprising ourselves with hope
will finally hold?

                                               —Jennie Kiffmeyer

Maybe you feel like making something, too, in the spirit of Muriel Rukeyser? If so, please consider telling us about it here in the comments section. I’d love to read it.

Picture: “Violets in the Rain” by Maia C. (https://flic.kr/p/nCk2Dz)

 

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Out of the Ashes: Ash Wednesday 2016

 

This past week I led my first Ash Wednesday chapel at Oregon Episcopal School for approximately 300 elementary school-age kids, their teachers, and a handful of parents and other OES employees. It was a fairly joyful gathering as Ash Wednesday services go–there was much singing and laughter along with hundreds of brightly-colored alleluia sheets being stuffed into a basket that was then hoisted to the ceiling of the chapel by a beloved 1st grade teacher where the basket will stay until Easter. Even the ashes were an object of happy curiosity. Completely voluntary, most children chose to receive the ashes or a blessing. But first they wanted to see the ashes in the dish. They wanted to know what it would feel like for me to gently trace the sign of the cross on their foreheads with the ash, (“it’s like a butterfly wing brushing again your skin.”) After deciding to go ahead, one by one, I watched as these rambunctious and charming kiddoes grew suddenly quiet and watchful. They bowed their heads, many closed their eyes, and they took part in a ritual that goes back centuries. And, then, just as suddenly, they popped up and excitedly turned to their friends: “Can you see it? I can see yours!”

As chaplain, I loved seeing their openness and their curiosity to experiencing God in the moment. Likewise, it was a powerful thing to be reminded of all the tender ways all of us are part of this holy cycle of life.

Here are my remarks from the day’s gathering. The words of the closing blessing are also for you, Dear Reader. May this Lenten season be just what you need it to be.

Chapel Talk, 2/10/16

Many faith traditions set aside time for kids and grown-ups to wonder about life. To hit the pause button and ask: what’s keeping me from experiencing and loving God right now? What should I change?

In the Christian Church, this time for reflection and wondering is called the Season of Lent, and it begins today and lasts for 40 days until Easter.

One of the things we do in Chapel on Ash Wednesday is we put away our alleluias and we’re invited to come forward to receive a mark of ash on our foreheads in the sign of the cross.

The ashes are a reminder that sometimes in life we experience loss. We feel sad. Lonely. We hurt or are angry. During those times, it can hard to say happy, joyful words like alleluia. It can be hard to say any words at all.

During Lent, we put away our alleluias as a way of remembering the tough times. Christians remember stories about Jesus and the ways he didn’t forget people who were sad, lonely, hurting or angry. He walked with them and ate with them and prayed with them. He made sure that they knew they were loved by God and that they were not alone. He even experienced death so that he could feel people’s deepest pain and offer everyone healing and wholeness.

The ashes also remind us that each of us is part of the cycle of life. In the story of the “Garden of Eden” we heard last week, God tells Adam and Eve: “You are dust and to dust you shall return.” We will hear these words again today and each Ash Wednesday as we re-enter that moment in the story.

There are sad parts in the story of life–but they are never the whole story and they are never the end of the story.

We are dust and to dust we shall return. But it is in the returning that we are welcomed home by a loving and forgiving God.

Easter will come and when it does, the basket brimming full of alleluias will be emptied. The words–praise to you, Lord–will be given back to us.

The past couple weeks, 5th graders have started exploring what it means to be awake and aware of the world around us. We’ve talked about the Greek philosopher Plato’s “Myth of the Cave” in which we hear an imaginary tale about a group of people who experience life only as shadows projected on a cave wall and hear strange sounds. They have chosen to stay in a distorted world and cannot live life fully. The students and I imagined what our own caves might look like–and talked about the things that keep us from experiencing reality.

We’ve also started exploring what religions such as Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism and Islam have said about the importance of being awake to the reality around us. How another name for this Reality can be God.

Christians are not the only ones who believe that ashes are holy. Hindus and Sikhs, too, have special ceremonies that honor the dead and return their ashes to sacred waters. Some Native peoples have had sacred rituals for releasing the spirits of the dead through care of the body’s ashes. Though different from the Christian observance of Ash Wednesday and Lent, ashes have been a way for many people to affirm our place as human beings in the cycle of life.

When asked, our 5th graders had their own associations with ashes. Campfires and roasting marshmallows, fire, charcoal, volcanoes erupting, a phoenix rising from the ashes, and death.

Our 5th graders and some of our 4th graders have explored these ideas in art. You can see examples of their work in charcoal and colored pencil on paper during the the imposition of the ashes. You will also see images by other artists who have been inspired by these same stories. Artists who have asked some of the same questions: What is keeping me from experiencing God? What choices have I made that have caused others to feel pain, loneliness, anger and sadness? How are life and death connected? What will rise out of the ashes of my understanding?

Chaplain Jenny, Chaplain Craig, Mother Heather and I invite you now to come up, aisle by aisle, to receive these holy ashes or you may simply ask for a blessing. You are also welcome to stay right where you are, settle into stillness. Let the images wash over you. Be aware of what thoughts and feelings they stir wake inside of you.

Closing Blessing:

A Blessing for Ash Wednesday

As we enter into the Season of Lent,

Remember that you are earth–rich loamy soil

just right for new seeds to sprout.

You are ash—the remnant of a crackling fire of

Love and Forgiveness that burns bright for all to see.

You are dust—released from the Big Bang billions of

years ago that eventually became the building blocks of all life.

And finally you are hope—for out of the dust comes new life.

In you, the story continues to unfold.

The Holy One is waiting for you.

What’s stopping you from joining Her?

Ash Wednesday 1.jpg

Where You Are Planted, pt. 2

Here is part two of my exploration of Robert Gard’s 1955′s  classic book, Grassroots Theater: A Search for Regional Arts in America. In it he writes eloquently about the role of place and community in the theatre and in our lives–themes that continue to resonate. Reading his book 58 years after it was first published, I can’t help but wonder, what are ways Gard is offering us a blueprint for making art now?

Throughout Robert Gard’s explorations of theatre in New York, Alberta, and Wisconsin, one thing became increasingly clear: “mediocre standards may be the single greatest drawback to the spread of the living theatre idea as a force in community life” (204). He didn’t say it to be a snob: his understanding of the audience’s experience was paramount to the overall success of a playwriting program. In order to guard against mediocrity, Gard proposed a model of continuing education, feedback, and the recruitment of the best artists and teachers possible.

This vision later expanded with an eye toward sustainability. As he sat at Sugar Bush Hill in Wisconsin some twenty years later, he had a second epiphany that I think is relevant today. In that moment, he realized:

The universities and colleges are training artists, many of them, and training teachers. The theatre departments are training actors, technicians, directors, and writers for whom there is at present at least little place in the profession for which they are being trained. No consideration is given to the fact that a profession might be developed in community life in theater… (250).

Gard goes on to outline what this might look like: home-grown artists working within their own communities. “What is needed is more idealistic wandering, more work, more ideas, the marshalling of more force for the cultural arts…. It may mean, eventually, a whole new concept of the university in which the backstage [i.e., the continuing education movement] becomes the forestage” (252).

In order for it to work, Gard argues that potential leaders need to be supported and cultivated. Decentralize the arts power structure (i.e., expand it beyond the coasts, seek local funding, collaborate with state universities, and do not rely solely on professional theatres in urban areas) while empowering artists to provide leadership within their own communities. What would this look like in today’s climate? What organizations are already following this model–and how is it working for them and their audiences?

Gard’s observation that the university is producing more theatre artists than can find work within the professional theatre (or the university!) makes me wonder, what if every BFA and MFA program included the kind of community training Gard describes? What if every student, for example, was required to bring his or her gifts into the community in whatever ways were specific and appropriate for the artist?

While Gard was working toward an ideal of the arts in our culture, he was also working against another tendency–that of a depersonalized, mass-produced consumer culture and how it affects audience. It is here that we can again learn from Gard; we are not in such a dissimilar place now. The Occupy Movement may have faded, but the growing clamor over the disparity between rich and poor has not. The great civil conflict of our time may be one of equal access. Class economics expose this gap and show the increasingly destructive differences in people’s access to quality education, health care, meaningful employment and–not insignificantly–the arts. So much of this is determined by where a person lives. Rust belt or sun belt, bible belt or beltway, each geographical location has an enormous impact on what we have access to and to whom.

Perhaps this is why I find the ideas of Gard especially germane in helping artists find ways of doing their art within their community, for their community, and–explicitly or not–about their community. Gard’s vision takes its cue from how we choose to answer the question: who is our audience? The answer depends on who is doing the asking, of course. For Gard, the arts are for you and me and everyone around us. It is the company who chooses the audience it keeps.

Gard concludes Grassroots Theater with this observation:

Whatever the results, the drive, the restless seeking, the searching into dim corners is the great thing. The sproutings of artistic expression, the coming to life in a thousand places, the places where people strive honestly for the spark of an art impulse, are my satisfactions and the results of my search (252).

One shouldn’t overlook the “drive, the restless seeking,” or what others may call passion. For Gard, it is the artist’s greatest strength and, as his daughter notes over forty years later, it is more important than a particular skill or technique. Picking up on her father’s use of the word “drive, she writes:

To what extent is your work only your skills, rather than the drive in your soul? What are your own big ideas, those ideas so terrifyingly pure to you that you are sometimes afraid to say them even to yourself?… Write them down. Dare to say them to someone….

And then, armed anew with your place, your people, your culture, your chronology, create your own ‘Grassroots Theater.’

Through your life, give new life.

Reflect. Burn. Speak. Act. Create (Ewell xxvi).

What she and her father describe is a lifetime’s worth of work but also the work of a lifetime. And there is no better time to start than now.

back stage at the warner theatre

Image: Backstage at the Warner Theatre by Christopher Lane Photography, 2011.

Writing Prompt: How does the place where you live feed your art?

Wanna pick up a copy of Gard’s book for yourself? Here’s the information you’ll need:

Gard, Robert E. Grassroots Theater: A Search for Regional Arts in America. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999. Print.

You can also download a free pdf copy of the Robert E. Gard Reader: To Change the Face of America, From Writings by Robert E. Gard. Edited by LaMoine MacLaughlin and Maryo Gard Ewell.

About the Keeping the Appointment Challenge! Check in each week, grab the prompt and go. New prompts will be posted midweek. Find a quiet place and write in response to the prompt for 15-30 minutes. Only after you have something on paper, take a look or a listen to other examples if you like. Wait a day or three and reread what you wrote. Revise for 30 minutes or so. If you want, post what you wrote. We would love to see it–and we promise to keep our own editing selves to our selves! In other words, this blog is a place to share your work, not to “fix” the work of others. We receive it with the open, generous mind of a fellow-writer and reader. Comments are welcome as are words of thanks.

Top Image: “Old Theatre Seats,” Mackinac Island, MI by JoeyBLS Photography.

Where You Are Planted

Over the next two weeks I will explore Robert Gard’s 1955’s  classic book, Grassroots Theater: A Search for Regional Arts in America. In it he writes eloquently about the role of place and community in the theatre and in our lives–themes that continue to resonate. Reading his book 58 years after it was first published, I can’t help but wonder, what are ways Gard is offering us a blueprint for making art now?

Calling all artistic wanderers: Robert Gard wants you! He wants you to make art about the place where you live. He asks that you travel, preferably by foot, around your state. Drink in the landscape. Listen to the stories and the way people tell them. But, Gard warns, don’t wander so far that you can’t find your way back again. The point is to always return and put what you’ve learned into your art. Find ways of empowering others, too, to share their plays or poetry or paintings. If all goes according to Gard’s plan, before you know it, you will live in a place where the arts co-exist with everything else. Where they are as much a part of country life as taking stock of this year’s wheat crop.

Sound far-fetched? It is–and it isn’t. Robert Gard was a playwright, teacher and administrator back in the 1930s-1970s who took his own advice. With help from the Rockefeller Foundation and teaching positions at several universities, he did precisely this kind of community work in the arts. He describes his journey in Grassroots Theater: A Search for Regional Arts in America. Part memoir, part meditation on fostering the arts within communities, Gard describes at length his work in Upstate New York, Alberta, and, especially, in Wisconsin between the 1930s and 1950s.

Gard’s search for an alternative way of life though the arts was set in motion after experiencing of the twin catastrophes of the Dust Bowl and Great Depression as a college student in Kansas. He writes:

If the power, the drive, the call that had sent my father forth from Cumberland County, Illinois, to Kansas was now somehow responsible for young and old wandering futilely through the depression, then, indeed, I thought, we must seek a new, inward expansiveness that would enrich us, not so much in silver and gold but in our whole soul and feeling (12).

For Gard, this new, inward expansiveness would find its expression in a new way of doing theatre. It would be a theatre rooted in place, drawing on the location’s history and tradition. The area residents would make up the company of playwrights, actors, directors, crew, and audience. It would be a theatre for the people, by the people and about the people. A notion tied closely with his own democratic ideals and, as Gard alluded to by recalling his father’s experience, it would be a theatre that drew on the same restlessness and idealism that propelled immigrants to leave the old ways of living behind them and strike out for new horizons in America. It would be a grassroots theatre filled with the frontier spirit and the same desire to build a home of one’s own.

In her introduction to Grassroots Theater, Maryo Gard Ewell, calls her father’s book a “spiritual autobiography” (xvii). Though surprising, I don’t think her label is far off. Gard reports on a couple mountaintop epiphanies–one coming during his early career in New York, one much later in Wisconsin. Both concern his vision for what theatre can and should be and may serve as a model today.

After attending a cliché-riddled “rural life” play at a county fair written by a urban playwright, Gard felt both disgusted at what he had seen and overwhelmed by the authentic, overlooked stories that swirled around him as he sat in the fair’s theatre tent. As he looked out over Butternut Valley in Morris, New York later that day, he recalled that:

…suddenly my spirit was filled and lifted with a clear knowledge…. There must be plays that grow from all the countrysides of America, fabricated by the people themselves, born of their happiness and sorrow, born of toiling hands and free minds, born of music and love and reason. There must be great voices singing out the lore and legend of America from a thousand hilltops, and there must be students to listen and to learn, and writers encouraged to use the materials (33).

For Gard, it is all about finding ways of amplifying the voices singing of America. While working on his PhD in Ithaca, New York, Gard came into contact with Cornell professor, A.M. Drummond. A champion of regionalism and the Little Theatre movement himself, Drummond assigned Gard to go out into the countryside, meet its people, record their stories and discover how a landscape can shape the culture. Drummond believed that community theatre could be a way people made sense of their community (19).

This last idea is one that I believe holds tremendous power. Since moving to Richmond, Indiana in 2005, I have been involved in a handful of plays at our gem of a community theatre, Richmond Civic Theatre (RCT). In doing so, I have met people from all walks of life–many of them born and raised in Richmond. People, I think it’s safe to say, I wouldn’t have met otherwise. Without community theatre, my life here would feel drained of color and texture and fun–and I doubt that I would understand Richmond half as well as I do.

At RCT, I have gotten to play a mysterious murderer, a New York dilettante, a blind woman from an Irish village, an Oakie matriarch, and a misguided Shakespearean king. I have been able to inhabit the stories and lives of others in ways that thrilled me down to my toes. While the experience of acting in these disparate plays–three of which were written on the other side of the Atlantic–has not directly helped me understand what life is like in an east-central Indiana town, indirectly they have. There is the knowledge that can only come from experiencing a tech rehearsal together, not to mention the joys of a standing ovation, late night breakfasts at the only restaurant still open after a show, or stuffing sweat-soaked costumes into trash bags for a trip to the dry cleaners. These are the moment I learn about where I live and the people I share a hometown with.

Still, I wonder: are we cheating ourselves out of something more by not engaging with our peculiar heritage or addressing head-on the local issues that cause us to lose sleep at night? Are we denying theatre its exquisite power of urgent relevancy by choosing to perform familiar plays in familiar ways? What if, like Gard urges, we were to approach community theatre as the way to make sense of where we lived? To celebrate it, sure. Poke fun at it, lament it, to assert: this is where we have our being, where we love and lose and laugh.

What would theatre look like at a place like that?

Stay tuned for more thoughts on Gard next week. In the meantime, please give the following writing prompt a whirl.

Writing Prompt: Over the next 7 days, keep a look for out for random acts of creativity. Attend a poetry reading, listen to a busker playing guitar, or watch for a gaggle of kids putting on an impromptu play. Maybe the creative act you notice isn’t even performed by a human, but by a bird or a towering sycamore tree or the moon. Record the details of what you notice. How does it impact the environment around you?

Jennie at RCT-TempestPhoto: a Tempest break at RCT, June 2013. By Andy Darr.

Wanna pick up a copy of Gard’s book for yourself? Here’s the information you’ll need:

Gard, Robert E. Grassroots Theater: A Search for Regional Arts in America. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999. Print.

About the Keeping the Appointment Challenge! Check in each week, grab the prompt and go. New prompts will be posted midweek. Find a quiet place and write in response to the prompt for 15-30 minutes. Only after you have something on paper, take a look or a listen to other examples if you like. Wait a day or three and reread what you wrote. Revise for 30 minutes or so. If you want, post what you wrote. We would love to see it–and we promise to keep our own editing selves to our selves! In other words, this blog is a place to share your work, not to “fix” the work of others. We receive it with the open, generous mind of a fellow-writer and reader. Comments are welcome as are words of thanks.

Prompt: Checking Walt Whitman’s Watch

I have been thinking of Walt Whitman all day and how much I miss that dear, bearded, crazy mess of a man. Who, I like to imagine, hugged everyone he met with the same tearful exuberance I feel seeing a sandhill crane open and close its wings. Through his poetry, he enfolds us in his embrace, his words, his song and then releases us into the air.

But of course Walt left the party before I ever had the chance to meet him. And what did he leave behind anyway? Leaves of grass, songs hummed to himself, a wristwatch to count the hours we might look for God as we sit on the boardwalk, sipping iced tea?

Why just today, I found a letter he sent lying in the street. My address smudged. It was sent in care of Walt, signed “Love, God.”

Who did he think he was fooling? It is so clearly his handwriting even if (he says) he was taking dictation.

Here is what it said:

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?

I see something of God in each hour of the twenty-four, and each

moment then,

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in

the glass;

I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is

signed by God’s name,

And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will

punctually come forever and ever.”

–Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself”

An SASE is included. He is waiting for a reply.

I love Whitman’s idea of seeing “something of God in each hour of the twenty-four.” A couple weeks ago the prompt “Overheard Inspiration” was to be someone on whom nothing is lost. This week let’s take it a step further.

Prompt: For one day, pause each hour you are awake and watch for wherever there is a stirring for you. You may call that stirring something divine or not, but it should be an action or an image or a scent that holds your attention that points to More. Put words to it. Only a line or two and then post it here.

I am excited to hear what will happen on your watch.

IMAGE: Walt Whitman, ca.1860-1865 by Matthew Brady. Series: Mathew Brady Photographs of Civil War-Era Personalities and Scenes, compiled 1921 – 1940, documenting the period 1860 – 1865
Currently housed at the National Archives in College Park, Maryland.

About the Keeping the Appointment Challenge! Check in each week, grab the prompt and go. New prompts will be posted on Tuesday. Find a quiet place and write in response to the prompt for 15-30 minutes. Only after you have something on paper, take a look or a listen to other examples if you like. Wait a day or three and reread what you wrote. Revise for 30 minutes or so. If you want, post what you wrote. We would love to see it–and we promise to keep our own editing selves to our selves! In other words, this blog is a place to share your work, not to “fix” the work of others. We receive it with the open, generous mind of a fellow-writer and reader. Comments are welcome as are words of thanks.

DIY

As writers, we are experts at do-it-yourself. We can make mother-and-son heartbreaks, clumps of yellow daffodils, and a chiffon cake left out in the rain–all before breakfast. The only limits are those we place upon ourselves. No subject matter is too grand or hum drum. Think of Emily Dickinson and her instructions to us on how to make a prairie.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.

Essayist and poet Wendell Berry took his own advice in “How To Be a Poet.” “The song is instruction in how to sing,” another poet, Dean Young, tells us in his excellent book, The Art of Recklessness. Chances are you write because at some tender age you encountered a story or a play or a poem that didn’t just talk to you, but opened the way for you to talk back. What we end up writing is the song and the instructions both.

Which brings me to this week’s prompt.

Write your own instructions on how to be a poet or a pilgrim. How to hail a cab or ice a cake. How to make a star wink or that same star howl back at the one who wishes upon it.

Not sure how to start? Take Berry’s advice:

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
    — from “How To Be a Poet”
Happy Writing!

About the Keeping the Appointment Challenge! Check in each week, grab the prompt and go. New prompts will be posted on Tuesday. Find a quiet place and write in response to the prompt for 15-30 minutes. Only after you have something on paper, take a look or a listen to other examples if you like. Wait a day or three and reread what you wrote. Revise for 30 minutes or so. If you want, post what you wrote. We would love to see it–and we promise to keep our own editing selves to our selves! In other words, this blog is a place to share your work, not to “fix” the work of others. We receive it with the open, generous mind of a fellow-writer and reader. Comments are welcome as are words of thanks.

Prompt: Overheard Inspiration

You could say that writers are always on the lookout for material. As Henry James famously urged in his Art of Fiction: “Try to be one of those on whom nothing is lost.” Joan Didion also extols the virtues of recording the inspiring, the mysterious, and the inexplicable in her essay, “On Keeping a Notebook.” (You can find it in her book, Slouching Toward Bethlehem.) At one point, she re-reads an old notebook and comes upon this overheard line of dialogue: “So what’s new in the whiskey business?” Immediately she remembers “a blonde in a Pucci bathing suit sitting with a couple of fat men by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel”–and then she recalls seeing the same blonde years later in New York in very different circumstances which leads her to remember her own very different circumstances then and now. It is the beginning of a story if Didion wants it to be, and it is being stored for her in that one line overheard at the hotel pool.

Didion’s essay in a good reminder that some of the best stuff comes from the least likely places–an overheard comment in line at McDonalds, say, or from sharing an elevator at the hospital with a couple strangers. And then there’s the unexpected sight I witnessed a couple weeks ago: a man dragging a lawnmower with one hand and steering his motor scooter with the other as he drove rapidly down the streets of Richmond. Some days I feel like everywhere I turn a story is lurking, and the overheard comment or unexpected glance is the key to opening the door and stepping inside.

For this week’s prompt: Set aside time each day to become someone on whom nothing is lost. Keep your eyes and ears open and jot down what you observe. Note the details that might otherwise get lost. Capture the tone of voice or the way someone folds his hands. Notice how people greet one another. (An airport is great for this–so is the school playground.) See that couple sitting at the back of the restaurant? What are they saying without speaking a word? After a few days of this, read back over your notes. Which trail do you want to follow? Choose a line or an image that intrigues you and use it to write the opening paragraph of a story.  Post it here along with your original inspiration. We would love to see it–even if we recognize ourselves in your story.

About the Keeping the Appointment Challenge! Check in each week, grab the prompt and go. New prompts will be posted on Tuesday. Find a quiet place and write in response to the prompt for 15-30 minutes. Only after you have something on paper, take a look or a listen to other examples if you like. Wait a day or three and reread what you wrote. Revise for 30 minutes or so. If you want, post what you wrote. We would love to see it–and we promise to keep our own editing selves to our selves! In other words, this blog is a place to share your work, not to “fix” the work of others. We receive it with the open, generous mind of a fellow-writer and reader. Comments are welcome as are words of thanks.

Image by Steve Slater