Island: ten minutes GO!

Eliza and I invited David to come with us to the Nashoba Brook Bakery in West Concord this weekend. It was time to let him join in on our "home from college" ritual. We order our sandwiches, usually the Number 9 ( honey mustard, slices of apple, cheddar cheese and a pile of arugla on Harvest Bread) We eat in silent ecstacy. The best sandwich EVER!
Then we clear the decks, get out our notebooks and fast writing pens and write. Yesterday the topic was "island."

Island
by David

I thought first of Tom Schnitzer’s island in Sebago Lake. It almost doesn’t matter that it is a very small island; it’s all his! The very essence of the idea of a place away, a place all of one’s own. This is counter intuitive to the emerging reality of our world today in which we realize we are all connected: socially, politically, and ecologically, as denizens of a shrinking planet. My air is your air, Indiana. My safety depends on your state-of-mind, Afghanistan, Pakistan.

But the idea of “island” remains a powerful symbol - a place to disconnect from the gridworks of global inter-dependency; also permission given to revert to the more primitive critters that we all once were.



Island
by Eliza

It was my haven for summer after summer. I loved it for its sunsets, simplicity, dinghies, lobster picnics and ping pong. Simple, yet every day brought something new, if only a board game on a foggy afternoon. Everyone was happier, more relaxed.

Now, the AMC huts are my island. Something feels familiar about their relative inaccessibility. Visitors arrive, but not by comfortably cruising into a parking spot. No, they come on foot, carrying everything they have on their backs.

I love the huts for the sunsets. The mountain breeze brings an air of simplicity as the complex world bustles below in the valley. Isle au Haut off the coast of Maine was also a simple system to visit. It was buffered by a seemingly vast expanse of rippling ocean.

The island of Lakes of the Clouds on Mt. Washington forced bonds between us. What else would ten kids do, the only ones on a barren mountain. And I felt akin to those with whom I shared the shores of Isle au Haut because there we were, united against the world by our oceanic moat.


Island
by Barbara

It stretches for seven miles on the outer edge of Penobscot Bay. One small road loops around it’s perimeter. Our island for a week.

The cars are old. The date on each license plate indicates when the car was taken off the grid and hauled out to the island on a barge. There is no registry of motor vehicles here. Once a car arrives, every effort is made to keep it running. As far as cars are concerned, time stands still.

We arrive on the mailboat. The Miss Lizzy is piled high with our duffles and all the food we will need for the next seven days. There is a store but from year to year we are never sure what will be for sale there. You can depend of dusty cans of baked beans and rolls of toilet paper and penny candy, but beyond that, you never know. Some years a resident sells fresh greens from her garden. Once locally made goat cheese was available. But these homesteaders give up eventually and go back to the mainland. Winters on this island are long and lonely. The lobster fishermen and their families remain. Island life is in their blood and the price of lobster is pretty good these days.

“There’s not much to do there. It’s not for everyone,” we are warned by our friends who rent us the tiny cabin each summer. Nothing and everything. One summer turned into fourteen as our children grew up and insisted on returning each year. We have our traditions. We scramble up Duck Mountain on the first clear day and look west past the islands in the foreground to the Camden Hills beyond. We can imagine lines of cars inching through the town of Camden where summer visitors are buying tee shirts, eating ice cream and wearing bibs with red lobsters on them. We are far from that. We check our watches and head down, careful to finish our hike before dark.

After dinner, the entertainment will include our books or a game of “Sorry” topped off with a game of “I Doubt It!” when we will all cheat to win. We will hold our cards close to our chests and bend towards each other under the light in our small house on the small island surrounded by a great expanse of sea and a sky full of stars.

thanksgiving

We are grateful that Eliza and David caught the tree in mid air during our walk this morning.

great to be home

time to eat

Mabel Dodge Luhan House, Taos, New Mexico.
This adobe house is on the edge of Indian Land belonging to Taos Pueblo.
It was once a gathering place for artists including Willa Cather, Ansel Adams, Georgia O'Keefe, DH Lawrence and others.
It is now a bed and breakfast and also a setting for writing and art retreats.
Twentyfive of us had it all to ourselves for a week as we studied writing and
meditation with Natalie Goldberg. It was a silent retreat. We talked in class but otherwise kept silence.
Meals in silence were particularly powerful. You really taste the food when you aren't' making small talk with
the person sitting next to you! And you are alone with your thoughts. It's just you and...you.
We read and discusssed "When Death Comes for the Archbishop" by Willa Cather. I recommend it to everyone.
The descriptions of the landscape of the Southwest are remarkable. One way to improve your writing is to look at the
writing of others. We also read parts of a memoir by Patricia Hampl. She was one of the first memoirists to break the frame. Instead of waiting until the end of her life to write about it, she writes about where she is right now. Take a look.
So three squares were appreciated. I could do a blog on food alone.
Just check out the morning menu!











The above are from restaurants we went to. Art everywhere! Rich southwest palette and always great food.

sigh

oh

I am back from New Mexico. Laura and I were struck by the enthusiasm for Obama everywhere we went. This mania reached from Espanola, one of New Mexico's poorest communities to Santa Fe, one of the wealthiest. We drove through Espanola twice traveling north to Taos. In October, Obama spoke here to a crowd of 10,000 at least. Everyone was talking about it. Spanish, Anglo and Indian were lit up with hope. These three cultures have lived side by side in New Mexico since the 1600's with mixed results. The way their cultures have interwoven over time is one of the reasons I love New Mexican art and culture. Obama seems to be a kind of common denominator for many. There are signs of this everywhere! We saw this painting at a gallery on Canyon Road, everyone talking about.....Obama. Check out the clock...Obama time.

We had not seen a paper or television or magazine for 10 days. When we got to the airport, we were bowled over by the magazine rack. Yes, any president-elect would be featured. But there is something joyful and celebratory about these magazine covers. Don't you think?

Getting back to cold, dreary Boston, I got into the cab and as we headed home, the driver turned to me and exclaimed, "what about Obama? great news, huh?" Even in Boston where we like to keep pretty much to ourselves, people are sharing the good news. Even here. wow.

it's a new day!!

About writing

My friend Sarah wrote this about our creative writing activity at Seeds of Peace this summer- thought you might enjoy.
love to everyone, c

Creative Writing from Seeds in the woods of Maine- by Sarah Norton

Flashback to the last night of session 2, summer 2008 at the Seeds of Peace International Camp in Maine. On this camp wide 'bunk night' the nine 'seeds' and 2 counselors from bunk seven crowded on and around two beds and fixated on the M & Ms and treats in front of them. As we joked around with one another, shared hugs and stories, we were all stunned that it was the last night. In retrospect, I was equally amazed at how different the scene described above was from that which had transpired three weeks earlier where, on the first night, we had all sat rigidly in a circle outside eager to make friends, but unsure how to proceed. The awkward and sly glances that had passed between individuals that first night, were replaced by direct eye-contact during earnest conversations on that last night. As the M & Ms were devoured, we shared our camp highlights, our epiphanies, and our fears about returning home. The ties that now connected the previously hesitant Americans, Egyptians, Israelis, and Palestinians present were tangible as everyone had something to say and the words fell on individuals rapt in attention. The words spoken by every one of my campers were precious, but one Israeli girl said something that I think of every day. She said:

“this place doesn't change us, it allows us to become ourselves”

These words resonated- albeit differently- with every member of the group. And, upon reading it, will mean something different to each and every one of you. So, I will qualify what follows by saying that this phrase has special meaning to me as a counselor, educator, and mentor at a place as unique as Seeds of Peace. There is something special about the safe-haven in the woods of Maine that allows one to exist in a time and place where a lot of the societal pressures that youth experience the world over are removed. Here, we are provided the somewhat rare opportunity to think our own thoughts, speak our own minds, write our own narratives, and to be ourselves.

Central to this article is the idea of our unique narratives. Fellow counselor Carrie O'Neil and I took it upon ourselves to create and offer a creative writing special activity during the summer 2008. The idea behind this program was to allow a groups of Seeds the chance and the space to comprehend and express the intense experience that was life at camp. The exercises ranged from 'free writes,' to observation poems, to quotation prompts, to thematic exercises where campers were provided with a single word prompt such as 'rain,' 'garbage,' friendship,' etc. and asked to either take three minutes for 'free association,' jotting down every word that came to mind, or eight minutes to write a piece of prose using that word as a starting point. The campers took advantage of these opportunities, and the responses were, I believe, remarkable.

Keeping in mind that fact that the examples included are 'first' drafts, I invite you to enjoy some writing from second session seeds. Below, you will find some observation poems that are representative of their work. These poems were written on a gorgeous summer day while sitting on the girls dock. They were asked to write poems about all of the different senses- sight, smell, hearing, feel..

Poem
I knew how I was brought here, but not why

Everybody here presents me with a new conflict

At first I didn't understand

Why me? Why now?

They say love is a battlefield but what about myself

My country is at war like many others

In some ways we are all connected

But our experiences are differently

Although, we are all here and we all have our flaws we're the same

Our common goal is peace

Everyone keeps saying 'trust the process' it works

At times I feel the pressure or get a look

I can feel so alone in a crowded dining hall

I knew what I had to do and now I know why I have to get there

It's not easy to explain yourself

It's hard to make others hear your story

But that's why I am here to find myself

And to begin a new chapter in my life

Not to start over, but to move forward

And to believe in myself and that I'm doing what I need to

Observation Poem by Lareen (Israeli Seeds, 2008)
I know what I want to say.

But I still haven't figured out a way...

I'm supposed to write a poem about.

Something... But I still got some doubt...

I'mma give it a try anyway,

Here at the dock, As I lay.

I can see so many things.

I can feel what this situation brings.

I can hear a lot of sounds,

like that boat making rounds.

I can even feel the drops of water unite.

Something which is uncatchable by sight,


I can see the trees standing still.

And I can see the clouds touching that hill.
I can see stuff,
I can hear things,
But what is above all,
Is the feeling that it brings.

Three months have passed since we sat on the dock and penned the poems and words which appear above. As I read over what I and the campers wrote in response to the various exercises, I am amazed as to the many different directions that our thoughts took, as well as by the willingness to express our emotions, to make a difference and, to FIND ourselves. Paramount in the lessons learned through this exercise is that the campers (as amazing, and unique individuals) all have the capability of expressing their thoughts in different mediums. While not everyone can speak what they are feeling, many have a unique gift-- a gift that allows them to write. A gift to write their own narratives.

Thus, as I sign off for now, I will leave you with one thought and one task. Find a scrap of paper, a pen, and a quiet setting. Now, imagine a place that has allowed you to be yourself-- if you are a seed or a delegation leader, this may be the dock on the pines side or your bunk at night. If you are a teacher in Israel, Palestine, Egypt, Jordan, India, Pakistan, or the United States, this may be your classroom. Or, as citizens of the world, it could be any place, anywhere, any time. Now, take eight minutes and share your thoughts- on paper with yourself or with your students. Tell us what that phrase spoken on that last night mean to you-

“this place doesn't change us, it allows us to be ourselves”

Free association. As was true to our small enclave in the woods of Maine, there is no single correct answer or experience. Even if it is hard to speak what we are thinking, it is often possible to write.

taos pueblo

Crystal was our guide at Taos Pueblo. It is the oldest continuosly inhabited community in this country, established in 1100. 100 tribe members live here full time and others have homes here and elsewhere on pueblo land. I had been here many years ago on a visit with David. At that time I felt uncomfortable walking around the pueblo. Like a voyeur. It was a sad place. People were selling turquoise jewelry layed out on tables, looking forlorn. I never wanted to go back.

I was encouraged to visit by someone I met in my class. So when we were given an afternoon off, I went.

Crystal was full on information. As we walked around the pueblo past the cemetary, Red Willow Creek, the church and the kiva, she reeled off facts and dates in a sing song voice. Spanish came in 1619 forced them to become Catholic. Pueblo revolt was in 1680. Spanish returned in 1700. Native traditions and Catholicism have now melded into one. At the end of the tour, she asked if we had any questions. I took a chance.
"Did many people from the pueblo vote in the presidential election?"

Crystal's face lit up, her eyes sparkled. "I'm 25 and I voted for the first time. My husband is 29 and he did, too. My grandmother is 85, it was her first election. I read the newspaper every day and listened to the debates! I don't usually do that. I asked all my friends if they were registered and told them how to do it. Many pueblo people didn't know they could vote and others didn't bother since we have our own government. This year was different. 80% of our tribe voted.The reason: Obama. I'm an Obama mama!" she said proudly. "We need a change. It will be hard, but at least this is a start."

The night of the election when the results were announced, tribal members gathered in the center of the dirt plaza. They shot guns into the air, which is their tradition on New Year's Eve. People were shouting and hugging. Obama's message of possibility has given her whole tribe new energy. I could feel it as we walked around. When I visited 10 years ago, it felt sad and poor. Today people smiled as they talked with each other. They didn't pressure us to buy things. The children got off the school bus as we were leaving.

I asked Crystal about pueblo governance. She explained that women aren't allowed to take part. Crystal wants to be the first woman on the tribal counsel. I have no doubt that she will be. "The elders don't want change. They argue and disagree. The buildings need repair. We need to talk to each other and take care of our heritage. Women need to be involved."

Change is in the air. A feeling that what we imagine could happen. The fact that a white woman from Massachusetts and a Taos Indian from the pueblo can talk freely together is the beginning of the change we seek. The world has shifted. We can never go back.

veteran's day

A soldier from Taos pueblo. We certainly don't hear much about Indians in the military.

Leona's Restaurante de Chimayo

Meet Leona and her sister. Leona owns the business. Chimayo is a pilgrimage site. She has been selling mexican food from her roadside stand since 1977. We were the only customers on this cold November day and she was in the mood for chatting. I heard about her granddaughter who is a basketball star in college in California and saw all the team photos to prove it. Although it was a slow day, her staff (which consists of her family members) were canning and packaging chili sauce to send around the country. Leona is a shrewd business woman and has done well. I was grateful for a warm sunny corner and a burrito wrapped in a corn husk.
The Sanctuario de Chimayo is next door, called the Lourdes of America. A sweet little church. People come here to be healed and collect the dirt that is said to have healing qualities. I like to sit in the dim church and look at the figures on the painted wooden altar screens in the glow of the glittering candles and yes, say a prayer for all who need healing.

more signs

There is no shortage of hand painted signs here in northern New Mexico! The problem is safely pulling over to photograph them! As dry as it is, the Rio Grande river valley is fertile and my interest in these signs force me to slow down and look at what is growing, what is being sold, who is doing the selling. A great chance to enter the landscape rather than speed right by.

Yes We Did!

New Mexico loves Obama

Laura and I are in Taos, New Mexico for a writing conference. We arrived a few days early to explore and adjust to the altitude. Imagine our glee at seeing so many Obama signs (many hand made!)