Writing in Community: writing practice, writing rewards

I am a writer who chose to dive into life rather than attend college. I left my home on the East Coast to live in Santa Fe, New Mexico. My story after that decision is filled with an alternative lifestyle, travel, kids, multiple losses, moving again and again, surviving a partner's suicide, re-claiming my voice, becoming a performance poet, my youngest son's suicide, moving to Mexico and co-founding an art gallery, providing child-care for grandsons. And finally creating a writer's life. My work appears in over 40 literary journals, anthologies, and magazines, many of which you never heard of, and I have published a novel, a full length poetry collection and two chapbooks.

I always wanted to facilitate writing groups but it was after the loss of my son that I realized I had hard-earned wisdom as well as a desire to be of service. I created Writing Circles for Healing as a way to deepen my own healing. 

By receiving McKnight Community Art Program grants in 2008 and 2009, I was able to bring a performance-writing workshop to one high school and a writing-art installation project to another. One high school hired me as the after-school writing instructor.  I volunteered to facilitate writing workshops at non-profits: victims of domestic violence and clients who were HIV+. In 2012 a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board gave me the opportunity to teach in twelve non-profit human service and arts organizations, from a heart patient support group to Saint Paul Almanac. I connected with Mn Prison Writing Workshop. I continued to teach in community education programs and was an artist in residence through Patrick's Cabaret for The Aliveness Project, a resource center for those who are HIV positive.

This lengthy explanation is to provide a bit of background to what I do now: facilitate writing workshops in cafes, churches, women’s retreats, libraries, prisons, healing centers, yoga studios, bookstores, and community centers. I teach mostly memoir, personal essay or creative non-fiction, and poetry.

I love what I do. Sometimes tears indicate that someone has found her/his voice. Always there is laughter. Someone may have a break-through or transformation during class. A young woman who had never written before started writing daily. Participants type up poems for the first time since school days. People give feedback that they have started writing again or re-discovered writing. I was gratified to hear the resiliency expressed by participants at The Aliveness Project. The participants who attended my workshop continued on to performance workshops. Later, these participants got up to share their work in front of over a hundred people.

At Pathways Healing Center, a man’s brain tumor had returned after three years of remission; he attended my class before he passed away. At that point the tumor was impacting his ability to be coherent and so he copied the last lines of a poem I used as a jumpstart. That day it just happened to be a poem I wrote and I will never forget the chills I got as he read my words back to me. One participant wrote in columns—first his words marched down the right side, then his words marched down the left. To tell you the truth, I didn’t always understand what he was writing about but others in the circle complimented his “poetic style”. A woman whose husband was dying from ASL came for a break from care-giving. One woman had to sit on the floor because it was too painful to sit in a chair. Several people grieved spouses or parents. Cancer survivors wrote about feeling they are a burden on others. 

We used prompts such as: what I am praying for, my beloved body, the knot of the self that won’t untangle, and what brings me joy. Here’s a quote from someone who went through a nasty divorce, then breast cancer: “Be what you need and want to receive, even though you don't have it yet.” Often I am in awe of their resiliency as it finds expression on the page.

The thing is, I believe we all have stories to tell and some of us have important stories. Some of us are the story-bearers for those who can't quite yet tell their stories. I have heard stories of abuse, grief, fear, regret, addiction, depression, and shame. I have heard stories of the will to survive. I have heard stories of unremitting guilt and stories of enduring love. My goal, I tell my students, is to get you writing so that when this class ends, you are motivated to continue. 

"Writing is a practice. The more you practice, the more you will find your voice and the story you are compelled to tell."

I have dreams and visions for me, the writer. But there is a satisfaction in teaching that keeps me on the look-out for poems to use as jumpstarts, articles about craft, and ways to encourage those determined to share the story they have inside.

Writing to Heal Loss and Grief: possibilities

Writing has been a way for me to process and heal from loss and grief, betrayal and re-claiming my identity, dislocation and a yearning to belong. I write to articulate what is deepest within, what haunts me and won't let go, and what I am troubled by. That might range from the latest images of garbage floating in the ocean to the sidewalk shrine to mark where a teen-aged girl had been shot. It occurred ten years ago and it still comes up when I write.

Today I ruminate on the passing of both of my parents. I was able to be with my mother so she could die at home. Because of my father's psychological disorder, he was unable to stay home. He was moved to a residential care facility and once he heard the news of my mother's death, stopped eating. The facility took him to the hospital; from there he went into hospice's inpatient unit. Six weeks from my mother's death, he passed away.

These are not easy topics to write about. As I share the words here, I am reminded that I am skimming the surface, presenting the facts. My feelings are many layered and still changing. The relief that I no longer have to worry about something happening to my aging parents while I am not there is replaced by regret that their final years were difficult and I didn't visit more often. Yet, they were able to stay in their home where they had lived for 60 years; they had a comfortable lifestyle, enjoyed visits from my siblings and me; my mom was able to get out to restaurants, shopping, and Longwood Gardens and loved to read.

I want to write about the last weeks of my mother's life. I hope I can capture her grace, sense of humor and acceptance, as well as her disorientation from pain medication. I hope I can write about her disappointment and anger when she learned that I couldn't help her up and down the stairs. My mom hated being confined to her bedroom but we had no longer had a choice.

I want to imagine the last days of my father's life. He wanted to come home; he was upset that he couldn't; if he had been in his right mind, he might have understood why. I have to process that this was not the choice I wanted to make for him and yet there was no way I could deal with his erratic behavior and demanding paranoia.

Writing is like letting down the nets and see what you catch. Like opening your heart and reading a message written in your blood. Like stirring the pot so all the ingredients blend into something nourishing. Like pulling off a band-aid to see if the wound needs more antiseptic. Like a magic mirror that tells the truth. Like a warm hug that comforts you when you discover your heartbreak is just the human condition. Like a reminder that no matter what has happened to us or around us, we are a work in progress and at the same time, eternal and whole just the way we are.

I hope I get to have this journey soon, after the gifts are given, the volunteer roster settled, the anthology edited and ready for the printer, the next meeting, the next discussion, the next submission. For my new year intention, I am claiming time to delve deeper into my family story than ever before. The reasons I ran and kept running. The reasons I stayed in touch. The reasons I went home to be by my mom's side. The reasons I craft feelings into words.

Quieting the Left Brain Critic

When I facilitate writing workshops, I use poetry as a way to enter the intuitive mind. I believe poetry opens the door to the subconscious. The difference between the left brain and the right brain is that the left brain tends to put things in order, to make sense of things, and the right brain makes leaps of associations, what is similar and what is different, according to the senses. In this way, right brain thinking can be more visual, visceral, emotional, and imaginative. It doesn't care if things fit together, it cares that there is a pattern, symmetry, memory and new connections. 

Our left brain is also where our inner critic lives and pokes at us when we are being creative, telling us we are not doing it right, we aren't good enough and we don't deserve to play.

By putting the pen to paper and keeping it moving without listening to the voice saying we aren't choosing the perfect word or right word, we dive beneath the surface. 

The benefits of using poetry as a jump start for writing:

Poetry provides a cultural context and expressive model that supports openness and emotional honesty.

It connects us to our intuitive imagination.

Reading and writing poetry is a natural process for people in pain.

Poetry provides a private experience where an individual can control the outcome.

Writing poetry is joyful and self-affirming even if the topic is painful.

It is a skill that we can continue to access.

It is a way of connecting with others through reading and publishing.

(excerpted from Writing with At-Risk Youth: the PONGO Teen Writing Method) 

Here is a poem and promt I use often in my workshops. The poem has humor and also the specific details: the red dress, the onion rings, the carnival ride. We read the poem and then I suggest the prompt. We don't analyze the poem as it returns us to the left brain. Sometimes the images in the poem trigger our own memories and sometimes they are a catalyst to give ourselves permission to write what we have not dared to speak, or even think.  

Antilamentation

by Dorianne Laux

 Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read

to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.

Prompt: what I regret and what I don't regret

Art and Healing: writing as a tool for coping

My healing story begins not with my own healing but with seeking solutions for my companion’s depression. Michael’s periods of depression seemed endless as he responded negatively to every circumstance, whether it was a sunny day of good food, friends, and things to do or a gloomy day of disappointment and things gone wrong. Sometimes he was unable to get out of bed for days at a time. I insisted that he see a doctor. With a diagnosis of bi-polar disorder, the puzzle pieces fell into place. Unfortunately, he hated the way the pharmaceuticals made him feel. 

We lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, a Mecca for alternative healing, and I began to search for alternatives to prescription drugs. He was willing to try anything, from talk therapy and art therapy to drama class, from acupuncture to homeopathic medicine, from writing class to drumming circles, from anti-depressants to a Mexican limpía, from volunteering at a senior center to Recovery, Inc support group, from Chi Jong to hiking. 

I eventually came to understand that one has to want healing, sometimes with all of one’s strength and focus. It isn’t how much you do or what you do, but the drive to be well has to supersede and overcome the habitual patterns of being sick. A new identity must be created and cultivated, painstakingly and continuously.

Earthwalks for Health was part of my search for ways to heal. Earthwalks connected us to indigenous artists and local sages for a week-end of learning about their traditional spirituality and healing practices. This is how I met Joan Logghe, beloved Santa Fe poet.

It was energizing to hear common themes go around the circle...

Joan was the founder of Write Action, a writing support group for people who were HIV positive. As time went on, they either died or became so well, they no longer had the time or inclination to attend, so she opened it up to anyone with a physical or mental challenge. I was writing poetry with another group at the time and encouraged Michael to attend Joan’s group. He found it satisfying to pour out his brutally honest thoughts on paper and not be judged. One week, he couldn’t attend because he was going out of town so I suggested that I could go and “keep his seat warm.” I loved it and we continued attending together weekly. We both felt we had a home where we were supported and accepted. It was energizing to hear common themes go around the circle and to be reassured that coping with Michael’s moods was not isolating us. 

Joan used the same basic writing instruction that so many writing instructors and writing groups would come to rely on: spontaneous timed writing. Pick a time, put pen to the paper and keep it moving, not stopping to consider grammar or sentence structure of even if it makes sense. Natalie also writes in Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within, “go for the jugular. If something comes up in your writing that is scary or naked, dive right into it. It probably has lots of energy.”

Joan used poems as prompts. In this way, we entered the rhythm of language and I appreciated the exposure to poets unfamiliar to me. She was compassionate and humorous, non-critical and non-judgmental, and was willing to share her own beautiful honest and vulnerable writing, even if it felt “uncooked.” 

As time went on, Michael became more and more mentally unstable. He would rearrange furniture at 2 am; had a serious car accident; started to have panic attacks and bouts of rage for no reason; and either would not answer the phone or talk compulsively for hours. I became more of a care-giver than a companion, lover or mate. I kept the house, buying groceries, cooking and cleaning, but I also opened the mail that he would leave unattended, planned our trips out of town, stayed connected with friends, made sure he kept his appointments, and listened to him talk about himself, his problems, his painful childhood, his lack of inner resources to find work or stay at a job, his lack of self-confidence and motivation, for hours and hours. He no longer wanted to be here, he told me.

“Please let me go, give me permission,” he begged. “I can’t believe I am still alive.” 

I was exhausted, frustrated and overwhelmed, working part time at a retail shop, trying to develop my writing skills, stay connected to my almost-adult sons and my friends, and pursue my own interests. And I also had emotional wounds to heal. Once I recognized that I needed to create boundaries, I reached out and was able to receive counseling at Southwest College.

Michael’s mental state continued to deteriorate and he became more and more determined to end his suffering. We discussed suicide often and my attempts to talk him out of it ranged from “we don’t know what’s on the other side” to “What about your sons?” When he confessed that he has kept a gun secretly hidden for two years, I was frightened. Events spiraled until I moved to our friend’s rental and then house-sat for her while she was out of town. Michael and I continued to see each other but I would ask him to leave so I could work. Eventually he planned what he had been obsessing about for years and I came home one evening to the news that he had killed himself.

To be able to pour out my grieving heart onto the page

                                                          was cathartic.

After days of weeping and memorials and his family’s recriminations and time to reflect, I returned to the writing group. A burst of creative energy was released because I was no longer care-giving. To be able to pour out my grieving heart onto the page was cathartic. I felt both liberated and abandoned by Michael’s death. He was no longer holding me back but I also no longer had his adventurous spirit, his companionship, his affection and playfulness when he wasn’t depressed. I was angry at myself,  that I had put up with his abuse, recalling those times when he was critical or demanding of me and other times  when he risked our safety while driving or traveling. A cauldron of boiling emotions poured out onto the page. To know that others were willing to be on the journey, accompanying me through the muck, was life-saving.

How long did it take to write Catch a Dream?

How long did it take you to finish writing Catch a Dream? someone in the audience asked.

I began to write it as memoir as soon as I returned to the United States after three years of living in Israel. It was my way of holding onto the country I had come to love. I wanted to get everything down while it was fresh in my mind. I felt an urgency to articulate what it had like to be on this journey of self-discovery in a country embroiled in conflict. I never felt afraid but the tension was palpable and the shock of coming to the sacred Temple Mount and encountering a ring of soldiers was one I will never forget. There are many specific moments when the reader realizes this is a place where a bomb can go off at any moment, where tear gas permeates the streets, where rocks are thrown and piles of tires are burnt and helicopters fly overhead. And yet, those are not the images that stick in my mind. I remember the moonlight silvering the Mediterranean Sea and the smiles of the vendors in the shuk and the way the stones of Jerusalem turn golden in sunlight and the sounds of the shofar blown on Yom Kippur following me through the streets from many small shuls as I walked home. Mostly I remember the kindness of the Israelis I met, from the friends who took me in, without a thought as to why I was penniless, but with many questions as to what I was doing in ha'eretz, why was I single, and how could I pay for health insurance? to the elderly neighbor downstairs who spent hours at the propane company insisting they deliver propane right away so I could cook dinner.

People are invariably kind when you are hitch-hiking, but Israelis were incredibly helpful and generous through some tough moments. This is what I want to hold onto, as the news tells us that the situation in Gaza is dire and inhumane. How can a nation of people who are kind, intelligent, and sensitive become a nation of people who allow the conditions that are in Gaza to continue? It makes me think that there is more to the story than I know.

But to answer the question: that was 30 years ago. I didn't go back and although I pitched the book several times, it mostly sat in a drawer while I moved on to other projects.

I attended the Independent Author's Conference in Philadelphia last fall and left knowing I was going to publish something. My spiritual home of Unity Minneapolis is planning a trip to Israel this fall. Suddenly I thought, What if I changed it into a novel? The names of Lily Ambrosia and Rainbow Dove popped into my head and everything fell into place. I could visualize these women and it was no longer my personal story but a story about Lily. This felt just right and so freeing because I was grappling with the overly complicated back story. From there, it took me three months to revise what I had, have beta readers give me feedback, revise some more (and more and more) and have the manuscript ready for Bookbaby.

How long did it take to write Catch a Dream? Thirty years. My whole life. Because I wasn't ready until now to really be able to have it out in the world. Now I know why it is important to me to share this story, not only Lily's journey of self-discovery, but the reminder that in troubled times, ordinary people can be judged harshly for what their government is doing. Not only Lily's love affairs but the love that is possible if we stop protecting and defending ourselves and open my hearts to the reality of others who are within our borders.

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A Jerusalem memory and a question: is forgiveness possible?

An icy wind blew as we struggled out of the warmth of the café into the warren of streets that meandered through the Arabic section of Jerusalem. I looked over at my traveling companions and realized that Sara was shivering inside her short jean jacket. “We have to buy her a scarf,” I mumbled to Carol, my mouth tucked inside the brilliantly striped Mexican rebozo around my neck. We huddled closer together to retain the warmth, Sara in-between like a protected nestling. Because she was a teen-ager, she normally would resent the inhibiting closeness but with this biting cold, did not protest.

  

Fortunately it was one of the days that the shops were open. The intifada had succeeded in shutting the city down for three days before the cold hit. We were sight-seeing, taking in the garden tomb, the Church of the Sepulcher, the pools of Bethesda, and Solomon’s stables. We only had a little money to duck into the warmth of a café for scalding hot, sweetened mint tea. It felt like pure luxury.

   

When we found a vendor who sold scarves, we let Sara choose, carefully pooling our shekels together from our pockets, leaving us with twenty argarot and one shekel, about sixty cents USD. But it was worth it to see the look of gratitude on her face, chapped pink by cold. Just as we exited the shop, drifts of snowflakes started to fall. Snow in Jerusalem! Where would we spend the night? I hadn’t told Carol that when I had gotten up to use the restroom, a man had approached our table and offered to buy me for an afternoon. Or was it Sara he wanted? This chubby, shy, tag-a-long was terrified of this strange adventure and fortunately she hadn’t been paying attention to the man’s broken English or hand gestures.  

  

 Although my feet were numb and hands shoved deep into jean pockets were icy, I was thrilled to be in the holy city of Jerusalem. I remembered that on their way into the city, a man we met on the bus had given me his card. A Christian Arab, Ali repeatedly invited us to stop at his home and meet his family. Impressed that we traveled in the name of Jesus, penniless, adhering to the original Gospel lifestyle, he was respectful. He shook our hands warmly when we parted.

 

 “Let’s call Ali,” I suggested over the top of Sara’s blond curls.

 “Tomorrow I think we should go north, to the Galilee. We’re not dressed for this weather.”  

“Yeah, you’re right.” I was disappointed to be leaving Jerusalem after waiting years to be here. But I would come back. To add my prayer to the Wall. To wander the streets in a mystical trance. To find my soul crying out for a way to find home.

To be in Jerusalem, to be in Israel, is to be in a place that yearns for peace, but weeps from war after war, on the border and within her borders. Frozen teardrops on this day. How is peace possible without forgiveness? is the question I asked myself.

In 1989, I attended synagogue on Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. I was invited by an American family to babysit, to take their child home when she became too restless to stay. They belonged to one of the only conservative synagogues in Israel. As we walked to the synagogue, the profound silence was cathartic to me. The cessation of traffic was highlighted by the serious, yet joyful mood.  The women dressed in white fluttered in the women’s balcony like doves, the children were free to wander among the men praying downstairs, the sounds of plaintive Kol Nidrei wafted up like smoke from a celestial fire drenching us in holiness. Although I couldn’t understand all of the Hebrew, I could follow along in the prayer book as we enumerated our sins and asked to be covered by God’s merciful forgiveness.

The High Holy Days are a time of repentance in the sense of self-reflection, to consider harm you may have done to others and ask their forgiveness before God opens to your page in the book of life. I loved the fact that we asked for forgiveness as a congregation, that we were part of a ritual cleansing as well as personal evaluation. The community supported us as we declared those sins, those choices and decisions where we missed the mark, aloud.

Recently I taught a writing workshop at Stillwater prison for the purpose of holding a reading during Victim Awareness week. They wanted to hold a reading to express their remorse and I would do whatever I could to help them make that possible. I told them, “You can’t just write a letter of apology and expect to be forgiven. Your victim may never be able to forgive—but if I were a victim, I would want to know how you have changed. How you are different now and would never commit that crime again. I want to know about the work you have done on yourself.” The word I used is metanoia, literally with-mind, to find mindfulness which is translated in the RSV New Testament as repentance. To me, the concept of metanoia goes beyond repentance, it means that you have changed.

As a victim, it can be a long hard road to healing. It can take years. It can take forever. I was lucky to have a therapist who was able to guide me through the trauma and tell a new story of survival. After years of silence about my rape, I was finally able to speak about it, write about it, read my writings aloud.  And yet, my impulse was to forgive the man who perpetrated the rape immediately after it happened because during the four hours he held me captive, I listened to his story. I knew he was a victim as well and that the violation on my body were the results of his own abuse, humiliation and anger. It is not an excuse. I don’t believe forgiveness needs to include forgetting. 

A few years ago I attended a Radical Forgiveness workshop led by Rev. Sher McNeal. We formed a circle and she read questions such as “Have you ever been hurt, ever been unkind to someone?”  “Have you ever been bullied,  have you ever bullied someone?” The acts of unkindness, abuse, violence mentioned became more and more specific. We were instructed that if we were either victim or perpetrator, to step into the middle of the circle. Then she asked us to look each other in the eyes and say, “I am sorry that happened to you.” No one knew who was victim or perpetrator. Rather we witnessed that with each question, some of us stood in the middle of that circle together. Sorrow and forgiveness included all of us. Remorse included all of us. Forgiveness included all of us. Kinda like Yom Kippur. A covering over us of Divine Mercy.

If my perpetrator had entered the Radical Forgiveness circle with me, would I have been able to look him in the eyes and say I am sorry that happened to you? Would we be able to weep together over his life wasted in prison and my years of PDST and distancing myself from relationships? Would we be covered by the mercy of God? I like to think it could be so.

Catch a Dream: why pre-sales are helpful and why I wrote the book

Catch a Dream is in pre-sales on Amazon!

This is what I learned: that if people pre-order a book, once it is released, it is stocked and can be mailed out immediately. (How often have I ordered a book as a gift for my mom and she got it the next day?) If there are not enough pre-sales to indicate that the book will sell well, it has to be ordered as a pod. I guess we no longer want to wait for things and sooner is better ..also, this will impact whether my book shows up on suggested books to read. 

Pre-orders for the ebook will be downloaded on your Kindle device on March 24 and pre-ordered paperbooks will be mailed out April 9.

To tell you the truth, I am scared to death to read my reviews. I didn't write Catch a Dream in a traditional way. It doesn't have a plot with cliff hangers unless you really are invested in Lily's desire to stay in Israel. There is a lot of description because it is a love story with the land as well as the people who live within its borders. It is a critique of the constant violence without exploring the complicated political history. It is told from the perspective of a woman who suffers from PDST and longs to be set free to love, to belong, and for all to live in peace. An idealistic dream honed by heart-break and healing as she learns to stand up for herself at last. 

I am happy to discuss my writing process with you during a personal visit to your book club or writer's group or via Skype but I am not an expert on Israel or Israeli-Palestinian political affairs. I am an expert on the beauty of the Mediterranean Sea and how it changed my menstrual cycle, the night I spent in a Jerusalem jail, and the birthday cake that caught on fire using re-ignitable candles. On fruits and vegetables so fresh and ripe, that when I returned to the states I could hardly bear to eat a tomato or peach due to the lack of flavor. Or the way the stores stopped selling bread, cakes and cookies, and cordoned off any products considered treif, that is containing yeast or having the potential for rising, (including some imports that surprised me) during Passover. My downstairs neighbor scolded me for throwing out a crust during Passover (obviously digging in my garbage to check on me) but someone finally told me the secret was to stock up on pita and put it in your freezer: "Everyone does it," she explained. 

I miss the way the Israeli families hung out together to enjoy a concert or the beach. I miss the beach. I miss the quiet during Shabbat and the sounds of the Muezzin at dawn. 

If you have ever dreamed of going to Israel, my book will give you a glimpse of a complex society and whet your appetite to see it for yourself. 

Here's the link to my author page if you are inclined to help me with a pre-order: http://amzn.to/2Gq3QND

A woman’s healing journey begins in a country embroiled in relentless turmoil.

In Israel, Palestinian frustration for a homeland erupts in strikes, demonstrations and suicide bombings and Israel responds with tear gas, arrests, and house demolitions. Lily Ambrosia and Rainbow Dove arrive in Haifa with their children on a pilgrimage. Lily falls in love with the land , with its people, and with Levi, dangerous but irresistible. Eventually she is fully immersed in Israeli life. Her son rebels against the lifestyle she has chosen and war with Syria looms on the horizon. Will she be able to stay? What does she have to give up and what will she be able to keep?

Catching a Dream excerpt

And so, the rabbis say, God saw this, the great devotion of the two brothers…and He chose this spot as the place for His Holy City, a place where brothers honored each other.

            But I say it is the clarity of the air that reveals the souls of men to their Maker, the sun washing the stones in subtle shades of gold so you feel the presence of celestial beings, the undulating hills that surround a natural fortress whose duty is to protect and comfort. It is a searing clarity reflected in the eyes of her people, brown, blue, green, grey, from all over the world, brown-skinned or pale, with crosses, magen davids, crescents, chains, sighs, screams, whispers, prayers. She is a mystery: she wipes your weary brow with a kiss, she throws you to the ground with a knife at your throat.

            Our driver speaks not a word of English but unerringly escorts us straight to the Kotel, known as the Wailing Wall historically and now called the Western Wall. My heart is wrenched by the sight of a string of jeeps, bus-loads of soldiers, the air thick with tension, the wariness on the guards’ faces as they inspect our bags before we may cross the large plaza in front of the wall.

            Wailing Wall. Symbol of Israel’s past glory. The temple once stood here, where God hovered close to man, where the sweet smell of incense and burnt flesh mingled with the ointments of a million men and women who came thrice yearly to celebrate the festivals dictated by the Torah given to Moses. The niches and cracks in her stony façade are filled with miniscule scraps of paper, folded and refolded so they can be inserted into the narrow slits between the stones, prayers said to reach the ears of the Almighty more quickly.

            Four women stand somberly in front of the wall, wrapped in layers against the evening chill, one with her forehead pressed against the stones, wrapped in private prayer. The smaller woman’s side is divided from the men’s by a man-made metal wall. The men’s side is full of activity as men and boys approach the stones to pray, some in the long coats and fur hats of the Hasidim, others obviously tourists. The golden dome above glistens, ready to erupt with hate for the enemy below, the soldiers pace back and forth uneasily with their guns slung over their shoulders. We can feel the tension as palpable as the chill descending as the sun sinks. The wind whips across the square and we spend only a few minutes by the wall before we are ready to find shelter for the night.

            We walk through the Old City, our nerves on fire, and yet, awed, amazed at her narrow, twisting streets, the bustle, the smell of cardamom and cinnamon, the gleam of gates leading to ancient sites. Our feet are walking within her gates! The same stones, here a series of huge and ancient stone blocks dating from the time of the Romans, where the feet of the holy ones, the prophets and saints walked. The pilgrims down through the centuries. The kings of the earth rattled through these arches in their chariots, where now horns blare as modern machines try to navigate between pedestrians and donkeys.  

(c) Wendy Brown-Baez Catch a Dream 2018

Visit to Jerusalem

This excerpt is from the memoir Flowers in the Wind which describes the ten years I lived communally. The group broke up while we were in Israel. The experience of living there was so extraordinary that it deserves its own separate telling. Orginally written as memoir, revising it into a novel gave it wings. The novel Catch a Dream is slated for spring publication.

Ben Oren was convinced that a nuclear war was about to start, with Jerusalem as a target. He interpreted the Scripture in Matthew: “When you see standing in the holy place ‘the abomination that makes desolate’, spoken of through the prophet Daniel…then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains…” to mean that we should go see the Dome of the Rock and then flee to Egypt as soon as possible. I am not sure why he thought the fall-out wouldn't land there. I suppose he thought Africa was our “safe” Third World country.

The Intifada, the Uprising of the Palestinian people, did not sputter out but flared up over and over and gained momentum, with strikes and demonstrations in the West Bank, Gaza, and  Jerusalem. Jerusalem was particularly dependent on tourism and even though it meant Palestinian families suffered from the decision of the community organizers to enforce closure of their businesses, it became apparent that many felt they had nothing left to lose. Daily incidents of violence became common. Demonstrations were followed by tear gas, rubber bullets fired by Israeli soldiers and massive arrests. I had visited Jerusalem three times at this point. Jerusalem the Golden was an accurate description—at certain times under a pure sky the very stones were golden and luminescent. The modern culture overlaying ancient history was intoxicating and intriguing. In one afternoon you could walk the Roman pavings where Jesus walked and have espresso in a gleaming modern café. You could bargain for sandals or ceramic mementoes and pray at the garden tomb where Jesus had resurrected. And the fantastic mix of  people:  shopkeepers, scholars, Hasids in their tall black hats, Arab vendors, falafel stand owners, young Israeli women in tight skirts, Palestinian women in scarves, pilgrims from all over the world, Coptic monks carrying books,  Catholic priests leading processions, tour guides with clusters of tourists  marching by. But the vibrancy of this ancient contemporary city was crushed by the tension in the air, the Wall surrounded by jeeps, the presence of soldiers in every street, the shuttered shops when a strike was called, the possibility of a suicide bomb a very real threat. But dutifully I made my last pilgrimage, to see the Dome of the Rock and to say good-bye. This trip was a culmination in a series of steps that barely made sense but I lived in a state of altered reality. Apocalyptic prophesies coming true; landing in the country of my dreams only to be engaged in the constant struggle to provide the basic necessities—all this kept me from articulating my questions. What are we doing here? We always provided for others, now we seem to be nomads drifting from place to place. Are we facing the Apocalypse? Is this the End? Didn’t Ben Oren say we should be far away from the epicenter of nuclear war, which seems to be under our feet? 

Had I just given up? Had group-think strangled my rational mind? Unbelievably, I still trusted Ben Oren at this point, even though it was becoming more and more obvious that he had not a clue of how to truly bring about healing and harmony. 

In Jerusalem frozen rain turned into snow flurries. The longing for brotherhood and peace that shone from our eyes connected us with the hearts of those who took us in. Conversations were emphatic, volatile, bold, and political. They led to conclude that Jew, Arab, Christian, each envisioned a different peace. The Israelis wanted peace so that they could continue forward in their imitation of a materialistic America. The Palestinians wanted the recovery of the land taken from them. It was not permitted for lands previously Moslem to be usurped by the infidel. At least, this was how I interpreted the PLO Covenant, a text that made it clear that all Jews were to be cast into the sea. The Bedouins wanted the freedom to continue their nomadic lifestyle. The Christians wanted the freedom to control the holy places, which they had divided and fought over. But I believed these were simply political foibles that would fall away if individuals listened to each other's hearts, the heart that cries out for true peace. We brought a message of the Messiah's return, of Divine Justice. We reflected the desire to act as brothers rather than seek vengeance as enemies.

    

I had bought a journal to record my impressions, to write down my thoughts for the first time in ten years. The experience of being in Israel was too intense, too complicated, too powerful, not to try to make sense of what I was witnessing.

The Dome of the Rock, gorgeous in its structure and calligraphic décor, was supposedly where Abraham almost slew Isaac in his utter devotion to God’s command and where human sacrifice came to an end as a form of worship. I wrote in my journal: Held to a Fire eternally sacrificing children, promised to a freedom never found and always sought for, seared by memory, loss, and grief too deep to understand, chosen to a destiny of knowing the separation and in love and pain mending the irreconcilable: God and man's contest of wills--these children of an inheritance forged in a blaze that consumes the world.   I walked through a cauldron of seething emotions and aspirations, alert to possible danger from Arab boys throwing rocks and Israelis soldiers responding with tear gas, bullets, and arrests.    

I traveled to “witness” the “abomination”, the Dome of the Rock, with Ricardo, of Spanish-English descent. He had started to live with us in Isleta. A gentle, sweet, serious brother. The sun and wind browned his skin and made wrinkles around his blue eyes. I liked his eyes and his British lilt. At some point, Ben Oren had simply said, “How can you guys stand being celibate?” and we had stopped. Ricardo was easy to talk to and snuggle against. When Carin and I traveled together in Israel, we were usually flirted with or propositioned. Harmless Israeli attempts that could be responded to with directness. Traveling with Ricardo was liberating. A fresh start with someone who didn't know me from years of mistakes pointed out, whispered gossip, witnessed frustrations. To do the work I believed in—spreading the “Good News.” Sometimes we cooked a meal for people who were busy, we cleaned the bathrooms of the hostel where we stayed, we performed simple tasks to make things nicer. Extending ourselves as guests and as servants. We worked flawlessly as a team, always mindful of our mission: to practice peace and then to leave. Jerusalem was poised for yet another war and wept frozen tear-drops. We fled, touching the place she had marked in our hearts one last time.