October 15, 2016
Last Wednesday, I sat in on a conversation with Patti Smith - Saint, Poet, Goofball, Punk Priestess, and one of the most unpretentious, authentically themselves people I have ever encountered. This was more evident than ever in a casual, two-person chat on the stage at the Lincoln Theater in Washington, DC. last week with Seth Hurwitz, the indie promoter who pioneered bringing in alternative bands to DC in the 1980’s and became a force to be reckoned with - starting the 9:30 Club and then IMP Productions.
At first, I wondered why Seth? I was disappointed that a more literary or musical person wasn’t in the chair opposite her. But he was fine, and Patti’s choice of him became clear. Think of Seth as a local, anti-corporate (i.e. Clear-Channel/I Heart Radio) bringer of joy and music to the people. I think that’s why Patti liked and trusted him so much. You could feel their long and comfortable friendship, their mutual admiration.
And of course, I think almost anyone could sit there with Patti and wonderful things would be brought forth. She’s just Patti, in the moment Patti, honest and humble and yet fully all of who she is- an artist, a mother, an “old girl” on the edge of seventy, a woman still so in love with her beloved Fred Smith, and in love with life, with the world.
She still believes in possibility. Maybe all artists do. (more…)
September 11, 2016
Are you ready to discover the stories locked deep inside you? Join me and master yoga therapy teacher Jenny Otto in beautiful Key West January 25th-28th for a rare opportunity to tap into the stories held in our muscle, tissue and bones.
Our body is a physical record of our thoughts, feelings and way of being in the world. There is so much wisdom to be gained – and potential for transformation to occur - when we listen to this faithful companion and embody its story on the page.
The stories we are talking about here have been accumulated over a lifetime, relegated to the somatic unconscious where they manifest as disease, discomfort and unhealthy physical habits. The way we walk, the way we hold ourselves, our very way of being in the world is all written on the page of our body. Yet most of this story remains a mystery, unspoken and unarticulated, waiting for us honor it.
Workshop participants will partake in the delicious adventure of marrying body, mind and spirit (more…)
April 26, 2016
Link to my post on the Brevity blog that gathers some gems of writing wisdom heard at The 2016 AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs Conference) Conference in Los Angeles.
April 15, 2016
Recently, I spoke at Washington College on behalf of RAINN (Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network) for an event entitled "Walk a Mile in Her Shoes," where guys put on badly fitting high heels and walk (actually a half mile) to promote awareness of sexual assault on women.
They put up a brave front, all these college boys in ball caps and plaid shirts over their black and red "Walk a Mile" t-shirts with the Washington College Goose mascot on the back. When we got to the park where the event was held, the pizza boxes were opened and I was asked to speak.
Try talking about sexual assault to a bunch of young guys when their pizza is getting cold. I did. The boys respectfully stood and listened, or at least pretended to. Most did not make eye contact or looked away in the distance while I proceeded to interject what was, I'm sure, a downer to their fun time walking in heels. But it had to said. And said to them as well as the girls that hosted the event.
So here it is. My speech to boys in heels. God Bless 'Em.
May 9, 2015
Reading is not always easy. Sometimes a book is a challenge to read. You have to trust the writer or trust you will learn something by staying in the game. That was my experience with Ongoingness. Check out my review in River Teeth. www.riverteethjournal.com/blog/2015/05/0…
March 31, 2015
Published in Spring Journal, Fall 2014
Sleeping Beauty Wakes Up: Breaking the Spell of Women's Silences
Light fills the hall of the old Key West Armory, streaming in from the high windows like fairy dust, soft and white and unusually strong for a winter’s day in January. The house buzzes with excitement until Margaret Atwood steps onto the stage and a hushed quiet fills the room. I crane my neck, hoping to get a glance of her from my seat in the very back row, but I’m too short and the woman in front of me too tall. Frustrated, I shove my purse under me to get some height and there she is – her unruly mane of wiry hair, her too-white complexion, her eyes – blue, steely. Steady.
Perched on my roost of leather and lumpy wallet, I’m not steady at all. I feel like a flighty bird unseated by an inexplicable feeling of anticipation mixed with dread. The blank pages of my journal rest in my lap, open and waiting.
Margaret takes her seat on the raised dais, like a Goddess or a Queen, which she has been to me ever since I read The Handmaid’s Tale, a science fiction fantasy that chilled me to the bone every time I held it in my hands. Don’t be silly, I’d tell myself. There was no reason to fear what kept creeping into the back of my mind while turning the pages, which was that this could happen, might happen – that our freedom, our gains as women in America were merely a rickety scaffold holding up a barely built cathedral.
In 1985, when the book came out, I had just left a bruising career as a punk rock singer and was diving into the “Dress for Success” eighties, throwing away my spandex and stilettos for the female version of male suits, complete with the floppy “feminine” bow ties women were encouraged to wear as they entered into the corporate class. We were post-liberation women, well past the messy fight for access to contraception and abortion fought by our older sisters, moving on to executive suites outfitted with soft carpeting and glass ceilings. Atwood’s story of fundamentalist Christians stripping women of their rights and dividing the female population into breeders and groomers and “Marthas” was just elaborate futurist fiction, right?
Twenty-seven years later, I have come to hear the woman whose words have haunted me ever since I read them. Among the sea of bodies near the front seats, someone raises her hand and asks Margaret how she came up with the idea for The Handmaid’s Tale. Did she think something like this could ever happen to women? Really? (more…)
May 22, 2014
It wasn't easy getting the invitation to read at the Enoch Pratt Library in Baltimore. First, my friend Connie emailed the events coordinator at the library (several times), then I followed up and talked my way into an “Authors Live” date. Then I got a date and had to cancel it when a family member had emergency surgery. Then the library graciously rescheduled it - for a Monday night in May. As a former events person, I knew that Monday was a tough night to get folks out of the house. Still, I was honored to have been asked.
But prior to the reading, my own life got in the way. There were finals to be read, another festival date in Ohio to travel to, an essay deadline. In other words, I didn’t do much more than a Facebook invite to get the word out, and I was nervous that no one would show up.
And this made me reluctant to show up. Maybe it’s because the promotional circuit was starting to wear on me or because most of my friends Baltimore already RSVP-ed that they would be out of town or at work or anywhere but in the library that night. But as I sat down to prepare that afternoon, I realized it didn’t matter who was there. If there was one person in the room, I needed to make it worth their while – and mine. (more…)
May 15, 2014
Here's the thing: the longing never ends. At least not for me. First, I dreamed of writing a book. Then finishing a book. Then publishing it. Ah, publishing - the end all, be-all dream. The one thing that would prove to me that yes, I really am a writer!
What I didn't know is that publishing is another beginning, another higher-stakes tunnel that you enter into blind as a first-time author where you grope in the dark, sometimes terrified, sometimes horrified, often confused. Your book comes out and there you are, standing on the tracks blinking in light of day, a bit naked, excited and ready to go- where? (more…)
October 31, 2013
photo credit: Roberta Gale
This morning I stretched out in Triangle pose, steadying my arm against a purple foam yoga block with chunks bitten out of its once sturdy square. Then, I headed to the kitchen and pulled out a white microwave-safe bowl - the one with the missing corner delicately decorated with ragged tooth marks in the half-moon shape of a dog’s lower jaw.
My favorite comb has rough ridges on the handle, courtesy of a pup’s teething molars. My prescription sunglasses have creatively chewed arms which catch my hair whenever I take them on or off. The cushions on the sofa in my den have had to be patched with new fabric and re-stuffed with clouds of poly-fiber filling that , on one particular never-to-be forgotten day, covered the floor of my den like fresh snow at a ski resort.
These are the lucky ones. The things that have survived puppyhood of a dog who, as my vet put it, was one of those breeds with “significant oral fixations”. A chewer. A crazoid. A toothsome monster who I thought would send me over the edge.
But he didn’t. Because puppies stop being puppies eventually. They grow up. They mellow- at least get mellower.
Now Winston merely steals a shoe and prances around the house with it with a twinkle in his eye as if he’s got the most precious thing in the world. You can just read the mind cartoon above his head: Your shoe! I’ve got your shoe! Look whose top dog here? Oh. Okay. Here. Take it if it means so much to you.
Now give me a treat.
And we do, silly humans, because we’re grateful to receive an intact, if slightly moist item returned in working shape.
Every time I take my sunglasses off and try to push those uneven frames back into their case, I tell myself I should buy a new pair. Aren’t I embarrassed by the tape holding together the edges? The way they sit on an angle on my nose?
Well, yes. Kind of.
But each time I take those glasses off, I hold history in my hands. Of the joyful, boisterous pup that emerged after spending most of his young life in cages. Of the patience and faith it took to stick with a young animal until he lost his taste for cell phones and sofa cushions.
I suppose some people think us dog people are crazy. There is a case to be made that dogs are shedding, slobbering creatures who can tear through a pair of Uggs in the time it takes to pull them out of the box. But they’re also loyal, loving companions who can make your saddest days lighter and your broken heart full again.
In light of that, a puppyhood of chewing seems a bargain.
October 18, 2013
So I'm walking my dog in the neighborhood last night when Winston sees a red fox and starts barking at it. But instead of slinking off into the bushes as they usually do, the fox starts following us. I'm trying to walk away from it while 65 pounds of insane dog is barking and yanking on his leash to get at the fox. I walked up toward a neighbor's door. The fox kept coming. The dog kept barking and pulling. I kept going, to the next neighbor's house. The fox followed. By this time, I was getting desperate, knowing there have been rabid raccoons sighted in the area. I screamed at him, GO AWAY. Didn't phase him. In the end, I flagged a neighbor was was pulling into his driveway who drove us home. Upon reflection, I don't think the fox was rabid. I think it was bold and curious and I was frightened by something I did not understand. Later, the DNR told me it's den building time. My dog and I may have been seen as an intruder that needed to be kept an eye on. I wish I knew how to live with the creatures around me better. And in some ways, I admire that fox.