Drew Myron's Blog

Adam Jones photo, courtesy of Creative Commons.

DESERT NOTES

— from Loreto, Baja California Sur

Guardians

Pelicans on a rocky shore

perched like

sentries of

the sea.

Dawn

Pushing through dark

a deepening light

stretches sky.

Noise

A rally of roosters,

the moaning gull,

loud boom of a neighbor’s bass,

my own insistent want —

how hard we work to be heard.  

Persistence

In desert heat

from cracked rock

a blade of grass

braves a way.

In the Canyon

From the dew

a flutter of yellow butterflies

lift us through rock and

sand, palm and sea.

this is how joy travels:

a trail of small surprises.

Palms

In strong wind

the pressing rustle

of change.

Thanks Giving

Again, again, again

wave meets shore.

A gentle song

of steady faith.

To notice is one way to give thanks.

To nod yes, and yes, and yes.

To every small maybe.

To every large perhaps.

To this, I plea and pray and poem —

please let me live in gratitude, let me know full.

 * * *

It’s Thankful Thursday, a (mostly) weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things, and more.

Gratitude is distilled attention. Platitudes are pleasing but powerless. As in writing and life, specificity is best. When we look closer, we see more, feel more, live more.

In tough times, gratitude can be difficult to reach, though this is often when we need it most. Gratitude does not erase worries and fears, but maybe — if we’re lucky, patient, willing — it shifts our perspective, nudging us toward a better view of goodness, light, possibility.

Thank you for being here with me.

— Drew

Toll booth at Button Bridge in Hood River, Oregon.

Dear You,

Because the light is short and the weather heavy, I’m in the getting-through season. Sweaters, socks, blankets, bed. When I leave the house, I dart between between soak and saturation.

Don't get me wrong, we’re okay. The world feels mean and nervous, but we’re safe. But it’s not enough, is it? We’re not safe, not happy, if our neighbors are hungry, hurt, frightened.

The alarms are blasting. But the silence is stilling.

I’m trying to stay awake to the world. But it wears — this rain, this worry, this steady unease.

* * *

But, how are you?

* * *

At the crowded coffeeshop yesterday, a stranger motions to an empty chair.

How easy it is to offer a place at the small table between us. She is quiet and contained but when I tender a question, she unfolds.

This happened, that happened. From Mexico to New York, Colorado to Oregon. Securing a job, saving for a car, getting a license, missing family, learning a language.

I’m eager to practice my Spanish but she wants to practice her English, and she is so open and eager that I tuck my slim knowledge away. We are surrounded by action — rushing, ringing, talking, calling — and here we are, two strangers leaning in to listen.

I am fixed on this exchange, the ease of her telling, the ease of my nods and encouragements. How easy it is to listen, to be present, without pressure or expectation.

I like my life, she tells me, as if surveying the contents of a purse spilled.

After a time without hurry, we gather to go, share names, shake hands, and return to our individual lives.

All night, with envy and awe, I think of her contentment.

* * *

We study happiness like it’s a formula we can solve, a friend recently said to me.

Once, I imagined a writing project in which I would send a letter that contained just three questions:  Are you happy? What is happiness? How did you get there?

I imagined the letters I’d receive in return: long thoughtful responses, secrets to success, maps to happiness.

I never sent the letter. I don’t know if you are happy.

 * * *

When someone deeply listens to you, writes John Fox, the room where you stay starts a new life and the place where you wrote your first poem begins to glow in your mind’s eye.

* * *

Once, I wrote a poem that turned to pieces.

Once, I stopped saying aloud the quiet questions inside.

Once, I sat with a stranger and let her tell me what she had to give, what I had not asked but eagerly received.

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me

mistakes I have made. Ask me whether

what I have done is my life. Others

have come in their slow way into

my thought, and some have tried to help

or to hurt: ask me what difference

their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.

You and I can turn and look

at the silent river and wait. We know

the current is there, hidden; and there

are comings and goings from miles away

that hold the stillness exactly before us.

What the river says, that is what I say.

— William Stafford

Thank you, friend, for listening.
With love & appreciation,

Drew

* * *

It’s Thankful Thursday (on Tuesday, because sometimes you have to rise when gratitude arrives) — a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things, and more. Attention attracts gratitude, and gratitude expands joy. Please join me.

What are you thankful for today?

This restless search for beauty and relief

Some days I want to cut

the lower branches of my life

but maybe the motion I want

is not to sever but to crack

an opening

to be a traveler, perhaps

passing the day

in a morning that moves slowly

the way a fleet of birds can split

a sky to reveal the loophole of hope.

Or like a wave — visitor to land

never belonging for long

but tumbling to catch a shore

closer to home.

— Drew Myron

* Title is a borrowed line from a poem in frank: sonnets by Diane Seuss

Read any good books lately?

I’ve been on a string of so-so books. Some snoozers, some losers, with a few sporadic bright spots. It’s probably me; the books aren’t bad, but my attention is divided, my mind distracted. Timing is everything — and sometimes I’m not yet ready, or past the time, for the book I’ve chosen.

When the reading is rough, I look for the glimmer of one good line. While one line cannot save a book, it does make for a happy hunt.

Here’s my latest, from Three Days In June, a novel by Anne Tyler:

Everything Sophie said, as a rule, was about

three degrees too vivacious. It seemed that she

lived on some other level than ours, someplace

louder and more brightly lit.

Tell me, what’s your one good line lately?

Writing in books feels liberating, and can lead to strange literary discoveries.

Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue and Their Trick Dog is a charming book published in 1923 by an author with an equally charming name:  Laura Lee Hope. Produced from 1916 to 1931, the Bunny Brown books show young protagonists in adventures at the circus, carnival, seaside, and other delightful settings.

But, alas, the charm is shortlived. There is no Laura Lee Hope. It’s a pseudonym.

Like the Bobbsey Twins, Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew series, the Bunny Brown books were written by a stable of  writers that were part of the Stratemeyer Syndicate. 

But wait! Is this common knowledge and I’m just now seeing the truth of my childhood faves? Is this the early dawn of AI, or just another case of unappreciated writers?

But no matter, the books live on.

Now, many of the vintage books are repurposed into modern journals. I love this re-use!

My favorite place to buy these creative remakes is Ex Libris Anonymous, a one-many operation based in Oregon and run by entrepreneur Jacob Storm Deatherage (another great name!). Like his vintage books, Jacob is charming and delightful, and with each order he often includes a kind and chatty note, along with ephemera found within book pages:  a grocery list, notes to self, an odd doodle.

Taking the re-use principle one step further, I turned the Bunny Brown pages into a series of erasure poems. In the spirit of use what you have — reduce, recycle, re-use. Who knows what you’ll make!

Chapter 1

Help

the empty feeling.

Shout for an

answer.

The Trick, 21

Dance a waltz.

Clap in delight.

Look smart.

Teach the trick of pretending.

Trick, 17

Time and love

is the only way to get through

the circus.

Trick, 19

Call the morning open

and lift a wish to be kind.

I know we can — for a moment.

 * * *

The world turns on words. Thank you for reading & writing.

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

It’s Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things, and more.

Attention attracts gratitude, and gratitude expands joy, and joy leads to more appreciation. In this powerful loop, we look for small daily pleasures and our perspective shifts, and our attitude, too.

* * *

The other day, I stumbled upon, “You, If No One Else,” and it felt like the poem had found me when I needed it most. The poem, by Tino Villanueva, was published in 1994 and experienced a resurgence in recent years.

You know how it goes with when time and circumstance meet in synchronicity: you make a new friend, read a good book, find a great poem. In the 1990s, the buzz phrase was, There are no accidents. (“Visualize Whirled Peas” was also a popular at the time).

It’s still hokey, but kinda true.

* * *

Because so much seems bad, I’ve been looking for the good.

Along with everyday annoyances (greedy corporations, grocery prices, health care hoops, people without empathy . . . ), politics are sinking my spirit and sapping my strength. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying to see the good.

And then I found this nugget:

“If I want to have loving feelings (instead of doom, judgment and paranoia) I just have to do loving things.” — Anne Lamott

Oof, there you go. Simple and true.

* * *

The other day, while pacing the crossroad of overwhelm and despair, it struck me that no one was going to save me.

Most of us come to this realization early in life. As young adults it dawns on us that a parent or teacher or “person in charge” is not marching in to save the day.

So we grasp and grow and become increasingly self-sufficient. We accomplish, achieve, and feel the power of can-do. We learn this early and then repeat, repeat, repeat.

But some of us (me) get lazy. We rely on a partner, a friend, someone with knowledge, access, or power, to take care of business, to make things right.

But I have to keep learning the work of self-sufficiency, to dust off and walk away from wallow and tears. The message is pressing and clear: we have to get out of the self to feel the power of self.

* * *

Anne is right, and so is Tino.

It’s up to you and you and you, which is to say me, you, us.

Be the change. Remember that one?

Still true.

* * *

This tough-love talk has been brought to you (and me) by Thankful Thursday.

Today I am thankful for poems and people who urge me into action.

What are you thankful for today?

Always and again, books come to the rescue. In these trying days, reading is comfort, companion, distraction, and escape.

Here are a few of my recent favorites:

NONFICTION

The Work of Art: How Something Comes from Nothing by Adam Moss

The ephemera of making — journal entries, napkin doodles, snapshots, sketches — is combined with conversations that get to the heart of art in this beautiful book featuring a series of interviews with artists of all kinds.

From famous to not-so-known, this hefty, beautiful book is a treasure (and a great gift for your creative friends). My favorite sections shine light on writers (of course): Marie Howe, Louise Glück, George Saunders, Suzan-Lori Parks, to name a few.

If you like this, try:

You Are An Artist: Assignments to Spark Creation by Sarah Urist Green

The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life by Twyla Tharp

My Time Among the Whites: Notes from an Unfinished Education by Jennie Capó Crucet

In this slim book of personal essays, Jennine Capó Crucet, the daughter of Cuban refugees, shares the ways in which she finds herself a stranger in the country where she was born. Examining the political and personal challenges of identity, Crucet writes with candor, humor, and power.

I want to give this book to everyone I know.

If you like this, try:

Make Your Home Among Strangers by Jennie Capó Crucet

The Five Wounds by Kirstin Valdez Wade

You’ll Never Believe What Happened to Lacey: Crazy Stories About Racism by Amber Ruffin and Lacey Lamar

The Inner Game of Tennis: The Classic Guide to the Mental Side of Peak Performance by W. Timothy Gallwey

I don't even play tennis — and I loved this book.

Okay, I do play pickleball, and that’s why I picked up this self-help classic. I quickly realized that the mental game is the real game in just about any pursuit.

Written in the 1970s, this treasure holds up across the years because it is clear, direct, and practical.

If you like this, try:

Inner Skiing by Timothy Gallwey

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain

Everybody Needs A Rock by Byrd Baylor with illustrations by Peter Parnall

Like a good rock, this 1974 children’s book is whimsical in its simplicity. Byrd Baylor’s straightforward prose, combined with striking earth-tone sketches, creates a charming meditation on nature and attention.

Byrd Baylor was called “the voice of the desert and its people.” She lived to age 97, off-the-grid in Arizona, and spent years protecting nature and wildlife, and assisting migrants as they crossed the Mexico border. Read more, here.

FICTION

FICTION

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender

I don’t know how I missed this odd little gem when it debuted in 2010. But I’m so glad I found it, by chance at the library, proving again the value of our public institutions.

Writer Aimee Bender writes with tenderness and nuance for — not just flavor — but feelings. She gets in there, deep and perceptive, with a twist of quirk.

If you like this book, try:

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table by Ruth Reichl

The Adults by Alison Espach

Asking for Love by Roxana Robinson

My mission continues: to read everything written by Roxana Robinson! This book of short stories is packed with tender, evocative, and intimate slices of life. Robinson masterfully explores the inner worlds of ordinary people.

If you like this, try:

Leaving, a novel by Roxana Robinson

The Year We Left Home by Jean Thompson

They’re Going to Love You by Meg Howrey

Your Turn: What are you reading, and what should I read next?

Lake Hattie, Wyoming

What I Wish I Had Known

 — for David

Whenever I think of that September,

I see the world in amber.

Well, not the world but

the lake. Late summer,

a September that was

still hot and the lake still cold.

A season of heat and high mountain wind

followed by days of mirror calm.

Across the water, vetch turns

the hillside into autumn plum

and geese honk across a wide quiet sky.

Butter, we say, when

 the lake is smooth as glass

and our skis glide easily along the surface.

It’s always water I remember.

It’s always too cold, but after the jump

 we call it refreshing.

I was young then

though I felt old. I had failed to shape

a career out of shaky confidence,

a marriage from exhaustion.

Have we always been tired?

Even then, the days were full and

we felt too many steps behind.  

I recall this now with some sort of whimsy.

The glass is dusty, the view distorted.

Time turns routine to ritual, mistake into lesson.  

I wish I would have known

that every small thing was just that: small.

A disagreement is not a parting. And sadness,

though pressing, will not erase you.

Doubt does.

But you keep walking.

Some days a crawl, some a skip.

You just keep going.

Whenever I walk into September,

I see you and me:  the icy plunge

in late summer heat —

the pierce of pain

the jolt of relief and

our sudden easy joy.

— Drew Myron

Viva Poesia! a handmade postcard & poem from Renee Gionet of Portland, Oregon.

AFTER a steady stream of arrivals, my mailbox is now empty.

I just completed the annual Poetry Postcard Fest, an organized commitment to write and mail poems on postcards to 32 strangers. Now in its 18th year, the event drew nearly 500 participants from nine countries and 46 U.S. states.

A postcard leaves little room to ramble. Every word counts and writing in the short form sharpens your skills — and fast.

Organizers urge participants to write spontaneous poems. This, they emphasize, is not the time to peacock your best work but an opportunity to write fresh and explore. 

Postcards: La Cathédrale from Diana Herrera of Washington; Pantone from Scarlett Watters of Colorado; Candle breath and shadows from Madison Hutson of Louisiana.

La Cathédrale - a postcard poem from Diana Herrera.

MANY of my poems were real clunkers — as first drafts tend to be — and I was initially embarrassed to share my rough work with others. But once I gave myself permission to stumble, I loosened and let the process become one of exploration and discovery. 

“That most of the poems I received were awful was beside the point,” says organizer Paul Nelson. “That most people were trying, were making themselves vulnerable and were learning little by little how to be in the moment and let the language itself have its say, was a victory.”

I looked forward to the daily writing practice. The bonus was receiving postcards and poems — in careful hand, in sloppy scrawl, with stamps, postmarks, and the fray of miles traveled. Cards arrived from Washington, Oregon, North Carolina, Louisiana, California, Canada . . . Nearly every day a new voice arrived —each unique, fresh, and willing.

New Yorker, a postcard and poem from Karyn Gloden of North Carolina.

AS the stack of postcards grew, I felt a thread connecting me to people I didn’t even know. We’re making things, I marveled, separately but together!

And just as I thought things couldn’t get better, I received unsolicited postcards from friends. They saw my enthusiasm for the project and joined in! (Thank you Dave, Candice, Fred & Carol).

Postcard penpals brighten the world.

IN this, I am reminded how little it takes to shift my mood, my perspective, my day. Maybe a postcard is just a thin piece of paper and a passing wave. But it’s also a small, great gift, sent with intention.

As postcard poet E. Tan wrote to me:

Here’s to curiosity and care today.

 
* * *

It’s Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things, and more. Attention attracts gratitude, and gratitude expands joy. Please join me.

What are you thankful for today?

 
* * *

The world turns on words. Thank you for reading & writing.

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free here, or here.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

photo by Jean Rosenbaum

— Kate Gray

Welcome to Fast Five, an occasional series in which I ask my favorite writers five questions as a way to open the door to know more.

Kate Gray is author of the novel, What We Carry; as well as two poetry chapbooks and two full-length collections: For Every Girl, published in 2019, and Another Sunset We Survive, a finalist for the Oregon Book Award.

For 25 years she worked as a writing instructor at Clackamas Community College in Oregon. She continues to encourage writers in individual and group settings — from correctional facilities to online writing salons where she serves as volunteer, collaborator, and coach.

She and her partner live in Washington’s Olympic Peninsula.

“What do I love to do? Write. Talk about writing. Dive into writing with others,” says Kate. “I’ve witnessed writing transform people, open them like time-lapse photographs of blossoms.”

1.
Why write?

Writing is resistance. At a young age a teacher gave me a journal with the following quote in it:

“To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.” 

I believe fiercely in this e.e. cummings quote, and for me, writing has always been my way to discover myself, grow, connect with others, create healing, community, and grace. Now, perhaps more than ever, we need to write and to resist the silencing, lies, denial, and destruction. We need the voices of love, joy, memory, the voiceless, the ones who sing in wind and water. We must write a new world.

2.
What do you enjoy about writing in community? How does this fill you?

Writing in community is my kind of church. I experience a collective effervescence, a communion with the sacred, and a sense of powers beyond ourselves. I’ve written in many, many different environments, from American Legion Posts to burlesque halls to Oxford University to monasteries.

When volunteering for Write Around Portland in Coffee Creek Correctional Facility, I heard the writers tell me they experienced the only quiet time they had in their week while we were writing. Think about that . . . They heard a clock tick only eight minutes a week.

During the time we had together over eight weeks, they also experienced a trust some had never had before, because we didn’t criticize or shame. We held up to the light what was good even if they couldn’t see it. They learned to see and value other women’s stories, and some learned to value their own. Being a part of their gaining empathy, trust, and confidence was so powerful for me that it was a big reason I decided to retire from academia.

3.
What’s the best — or worst — writing advice you’ve received?

One of the worst things a coach once did was monetize what she thought my unfinished manuscript would sell for. My dreams became tied to money rather than good storytelling.

One of the best lessons came from Ron Carlson, the fiction writer, who described his sons climbing one of the bunkers in a state park on the Oregon Coast. One son lifted up a hatch and shouted, “Dad, don’t you just love not knowing where you’re going to go?” and he jumped into the dark (and didn’t hurt himself).

If you let it, writing is like that, an adventure, a path you can follow with endless surprise and delight.

From For Every Girl: New & Selected Poems by Kate Gray

4.
What book (or poem) do you return to again and again?

I return to Robert Frost’s poem, The Star-splitter, to learn to be a good neighbor;

Jimmy Santiago Baca’s I am offering you this poem, to learn gratitude and generosity;

Danez Smith’s a note on the body to learn new ways to love;

Lucille Clifton to know joy,

Joy Harjo to know patience,

Li-Young Lee to know family,

Sharon Hashimoto to understand patriotism,

Brionne Janae to tiptoe toward forgiveness,

and so many others.

5. 
I’m a word collector, and keeping a running list of favorites? What are yours? 

Some favorite words:

murmuration

inchoate

hallelujah

boom.

Excerpt from For Every Girl: New & Selected Poems by Kate Gray