Dear all
It’s been so hot this week, we’ve all had to slow down. This makes me uncomfortable. Even though I’ve tried to simplify my work commitments this summer, stopped running workshops and decided to take on no new projects, I gave myself tasks of decluttering, cleaning, reflecting on the past year, planning the autumn, finishing articles, writing this newsletter, growing food at the allotment. These are all big. And all while maintaining my part-time job, home and family.
Last week, my acupuncturist gave me advice to take time in my day to just be. Not to write, read, work, think or do anything for anyone else. I realised that I don’t do that. Not at all. I use cleaning, cooking, gardening to think. I write about life, so I have an unrelenting internal narrative noticing thoughts, memories and emotions that pop up, wondering if they could be the next story. If I watch tv or listen to an audio book, I notice what it says about culture, or I notice the more technical aspects of dialogue or story structure.
If I want to swim or walk or have a day out, I invite someone to go with me. I don't spend enough time with my friends and family as it is and I relish those moments of connection. But recently, I’ve noticed that after time with other people, I am left with a heavy feeling. The talking and listening leaves not just traces but rocks which weigh heavily against the memories of the clear water I swam in or the dark woods I walked in. It may be the subject matter - teenagers, caring for older family members, politics, illness, work, cost of living, global warming, war and refugees - but it also may be that I need more time alone to replenish.
So I’ve got two things for you this week:
After some sofa time in the heat of Tuesday and a message out of the blue from a school friend I’ve not heard from in 34 years, who wanted to connect with me on LinkedIn, I revised my About section. When I saw what she was looking at, I realised it didn’t represent me or my work at all. My work has shifted so much in the past couple of years. So I share what I came up with below.
When I was thinking about being and not writing, I realised ironically that there is the perfect Japanese form for capturing these moments. It’s called haibun. Scroll down for more about this form as well as my attempts.
My new LinkedIn About section
It made me so happy to write this, which reflects my move away from copywriting and web editing in recent years:
My work is all about stories:
1) Researching the stories we tell ourselves and other people; both historically and the present day – I delve into stories in academic research, the media, memoir, diaries, fiction, art as well as myths and fairy tales to understand the dominant narrative.
Practically, this means I undertake literature reviews on a chosen topic that are multidisciplinary and multimodal and reach wider than purely academic or published research reports.
2) Helping others tell their stories. My aim is to encourage diversity, complexity and specificity. There are no quick fixes, tidy endings, or moments of complete resolution in life and the stories we write and create will ideally represent this. Stories don’t need to be straightforward narratives, so I offer tips and techniques and make space for blends of different types of writing (eg poetry, lyric essays, journals or reflective writing) or other understandings of stories such as craft or visual representations.
I develop and run creative writing workshops. These can be bespoke, depending on the project – with a research or wellbeing focus, ideally a combination of both.
And I run The Writer’s Notebook, on Zoom and in person at Chequer Mead Theatre in East Grinstead. This is a weekly workshop that values process over end product, trying new things, coming up with plenty of ideas and having fun.
3) Sharing stories. I aim to do all that I can to help little-heard stories shake the hearts and change the minds of policy makers and other people who keep the dominant narrative going.
I do this by commissioning, editing and publishing stories of community and co-production on Ideas Hub; organising events; speaking at conferences; creating online archives; and writing and publishing articles about my work.
4) Writing my own stories. I don’t ask other people to do anything I haven’t done myself, so my research includes autoethnographic or creative work of my own. Writing myself into my work is integral to understanding and shifting the narrative. I also work in creative collaboration with others.
I write about my creative process, share stories from my midlife perspective, offer writing prompts and reading suggestions in my weekly newsletter, Awen.
About Haibun
Haibun is a piece of descriptive prose, or prose poem, that has a haiku as part of it, which deepens a moment in the piece. Basho, a seventeenth century Japanese poet, wrote haibun in his travel journal, Narrow Road to the Deep North. I’ve written more about Japanese poetic forms in this article. There are plenty of examples in the online journal: Contemporary Haibun Online.
There are probably other rules, but the most important things for me are to stay in the moment, include sensory details and to make sure the haiku adds meaning to the prose, rather than saying what is already there. I haven’t quite done that in these examples, but I’m working on it!
Valladolid haibun, 2000
In Mexico, not far from Valladolid, a dark slippery passage opens out into a huge cave. A deep pool of the cenote is lit by a circle of sunshine from a hole in the cave roof, highlighting translucent fish like an X-ray. Children crawl through tiny gaps in rocks, climb thick dripping stalactites, curl themselves into balls and jump into the water with a reverberating splash. People disappear behind rocks to change. I didn’t bring a costume. I wish I had. We sit on the cold rocks watching people swim. Every sound in the cave is amplified and echoes. When the people get out, the ripples of the water flatten, reflecting every crack and crevice of the cave wall.
sunshine spotlight shines on fish with translucent skin green water swimming
Llanberis haibun, 2021
In Llanberis, Snowdonia, there is a lake surrounded by mountains and forest where you can swim. A layer of small and big slate rocks from an old mine covers the bottom of the lake so the water is clear and clean, not stirred up with mud. We spot the tent through the trees from the girls we saw setting up camp last night. Camper vans arrive with people in wetsuits ready for Sunday morning watersports. I step on the stones, wade into the cold lake, sun warming my head, and allow my body to get used to the cold, inch by inch. And then I’m in, moving my body with the cold water. I swim so I can see the mountains. I say, I’ll swim to that tree and back and I wish I could do this every Sunday.
swim in Snowdon’s shade slate keeps the cold water clear ancient mine echoes
Writing prompt
Write a haibun. Pick a moment. This can be a moment from your week or a vivid memory. Stay in that moment and describe what you can see, hear, feel, taste, smell. Edit out all unnecessary words. Pick a moment within the moment to amplify. Write a haiku (3 short lines: 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables) to highlight the emotion in that moment.
Feel free to post in the comments below or email to me.
Further reading
Basho, Matsuo. (2005). The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, Penguin Classics.
Thank you for reading!
Until next time…
Mel
Deep blue water, ripples fanning out towards the edges of the pool. White balustrades casting gentle shadows. Palm trees shimmering in gentle breeze. Toes pointing, my foot turns slowly as it seeks relief from the burning heat. Gentle splish-splash of moving water, droplets falling like tears from my leg. Cicadas hum for a moment like a fridge motor, then cease. Dragonfly dips over the pool then rises like an alien craft disappearing into another dimension. Straw hat perched on sun bleached hair and the scent of suntan oil rising from my shoulders. I reach out for ice cold water in a glass beaded with condensation. Drink deep, feel the icy goodness snaking down my throat and cooling from inside. Head back, hands on the smooth, hot tiles, feel the sun on my face for a moment. Toes still turning in cool blue water. Momentary shadow as seagull flies over, white speck disturbing clear blue sky. Indignant fly struggling in the water. You flew too close, my friend. Cupped hand rescuing. Saving. Just like this moment is for me.
Remember this time
The slowing of the moment
Keep it, take it home
My feet sit secure on the floor , my knees and hips bend comfortably around the angles of the chair.My page is blank, and my black roller pen sits between my fingers it patiently waits to be glided and gently pushed to create a story .
The clock in its smooth wooden case ticks. It needs a weekly wind to enable it to emit sound . It's rhythmic tick ,like my heart beat has been there all my life .
Enjoy each tick and each heart beat it has passed and hopefully left a memory to reflect upon.
I am distracted by a movement,I lift my head and see a blackbird looking at brown dry grass and hard earth wondering where the worms are?
Every tick and beat counts
Memories are created
Grasp this moment now