the homesick snail

Like "the homesick snail looking for the very thing it carries on its back" I travel far from home to find... home! It seems that no matter how far I am from the place I call home, I can be at home, if - and it is a big if - I stop a while, stop striving to do everything and just be.
Curled up in the window of an ancient aqueduct in Spoleo watching the traffic groan up into the Umbrian hills in June, I realised that despite my longing for home, I was content and the feeling of being at home was actually close at hand. With my pen meandering across the pages of my notebook I was as at home as I would be lounging on the cushions of my bed in Australia.
Like the snail I was carrying what I was looking for on my back. The stillness that allows me to be aware of myself and my small presence in the world waits for me. Most of the time it seems just out of reach, but if I just allow myself to stop, it is right there.
At my physical home I think I am furthest from the home I carry about with me. There are so many distractions, especially from my writerly self, so much to strive for and organise. In all the casting about and rushing hither and thither I forget that it is from the stillness and the waiting that my best writing comes. And it is in writing that the most powerful feeling of being at home comes to me.
The homesick snail quote came to me from Ric Masten via G Lynn Nelson's book Writing and Being: Taking back our lives through the power of language. Lynn teaches writing from the base of the personal journal. From exploring our own lives, feelings and world we move into public writing. From the wonders of 'word and self and universe' the journal writer enters on a path with a heart 'not to arrive but to see the wonders of the path itself'. From the journal he suggests taking the ideas and writing that most move us into the public realm. When we have concrete stories to tell and are excited by them, we write more powerfully and naturally.
Lynn has sent me back to my journal, to be grounded in my own experience and responses to the world. Perhaps home for me is my journal? It is certainly where I am forced to be still and where I find myself most contented.

Publication???

Because I write poetry with little expectation of an audience, it is always a thrill to find that it resonates with someone else - especially if that someone else is an editor. And in the pile of mail on my desk when I returned from holidays was not just one but three collections of poetry containing my work.
The first was Eucalypt, an Australian tanka journal that comes out quarterly with contemporary tanka on a rainbow of topics. After the earthquake and tsunami in Japan many in this issue touched on the ensuing  shock and recovery. Others treated illness, love, family, gardens and travel, all were multi-layered and demanding several re-readings. I wrote the tanka that appears in this issue after marvelling at a group of tourists so obsessed with their own health that they wore plastic overshoes on their bare feet into a temple in Phnom Penn, completely missing the cool of the floor and the stillness of the place they crackled through.

the soles of my feet
on cool temple stone
in touch
with the earth
and the eternal


I was thrilled to find that I was a finalist in the jack stamm haiku  award and so appeared in moonrise and bare hills, the paper wasp haiku anthology 2010. Haiku is a favourite form of mine. I love the puzzle of packing so much into so little, of seeing analogies and of evoking the same 'aha' in a reader/hearer as I experienced when I was in the inspiring moment. These contemporary Australian haiku are not of the 5/7/5 variety or even necessarily in 3 lines. This anthology encapsulates the variety of haiku being produced in Australia and is available in hardcopy through the paper wasp site but unfortunately not online.

through the leaves
a shiver of rain
distant bells peal


The final collection Grevillea and Wonga Vine: Australian Tanka of Place was the most exciting for me. After 25 Australian poets were featured in the online journal Atlas Poetica: A Journal of Poetry of Place in Contemporary Tanka, Beverley George, editor of Eucalypt decided to publish a hardcopy publication. She invited other poets to contribute additional work and produced a sumptuous, well-laid out tanka feast. Purchase is through:
Beverley George, 
    PO Box 37 Pearl Beach NSW 2256     Australia

Reading in the shade

Just back from a vacation (and a little work) in Europe. Most of the time I was in Italy, most of which is hot and crowded in June, and not conducive to refreshment. My solution was to retire with my books in the heat of the day. As you can see my reading list has grown exponentially today thanks to my afternoons in the shade of a fig tree.
In a village up in the hills from Florence I reread Room with a View, the novel which first whetted my appetite for Italy. I had forgotten how ironic it is and remembered only the section set in Florence. Of course strolling along the banks of the Arno, crossing stoney piazzas and staying in viewing distance of the Duomo brought Miss Lucy's adventures alive, but at the same time the book  enhanced my enjoyment of Florence. This alchemy of pleasure was probably missed by the crowds forging from the Academie to the Duomo with their noses in their guide books, determined to check all the boxes by closing time.
I've resisted reading The Help ever since it appeared on Amazon's bestseller list, probably because I'm just cussed but also because I thought it was yet another American self-flagellation on race relations back a century or so ago. But finally I succumbed and discovered the challenging voices of southern black women in recent history. I know very little about the American south but Kathryn Stockett let those black women speak about their lives in the 1960s from their point of view. They exposed the true relations between black and white women, and told of the irreparable damage done to generations of black families by white women ignorant of or careless with the power they wielded.
Once I got over my irritation with the hyper, whining New York voice of the protagonist, Peter, of By Nightfall I rediscovered my veneration of  Michael Cunningham's prose. He reflects on the things that really matter in life by destabilising the certainties Peter assumes every day just so that he can function in the world. Peter's comfortable marriage, his sexuality and his career come under close scrutiny and lose all of their solidity before the book is over.
In my small hotel room in Vienna after a long day at a conference I downloaded Tea Obreht's The Tiger's Wife and went on a totally different journey. Somehow she welds middle European superstition to modern pragmatism to produce a gem of a story in beautifully crafted prose.
At the suggestion of an English couple sharing our villa in Tuscany I read Salmon fishing in the Yemen on the plane from London to Bangkok. It was the perfect escape from the cramped cabin and plastic food - Yes Minister times a hundred, very, very funny!
Australian Kristen Tranter's The Legacy was a darker read. A young woman setting out on life with lots of potential inherits some money and gradually fades from her friends and family's lives. Her disappearance seemingly straightforward at first eventually raises more questions than answers. It is not a genre mystery but I am still puzzling through the hints the young woman's friend uncovers 2 weeks after finishing the book.

Yeah for Scrivener and David Hewson!

A few months ago I switched to a Mac after half a lifetime on PCs. It's been a steep learning curve but I'm just about there. All the things I thought were intuitive weren't... and I still get confused switching between PC at work and Mac at home, but I'm now glad I made the leap.
It took a while to find a writing program I was happy with but I eventually settled on Scrivener. I followed the tutorial that came with it - and fell asleep several nights running. It's a little too comprehensive. I found it hard to sort out which features I really needed and which were peripheral to my kind of thinking and writing. In the end I followed my nose and muddled through several stories and articles, but knew there was much more to it, if I could just take the time out and sort through it all.
Today as I read a few blogs and limbered up for the day I stumbled on David Hewson's Writing a Novel with Scrivener. He cuts straight to the point. The features useful to everyday writers are explained in a few short pages. I found out how to go to full screen and back again quickly, how to use the dictionary and turn on the thesaurus, change fonts for the whole project, split documents without cumbersome double screens, rearrange the binder (I'd struggled for hours to work that out for myself). In short I'd been too interested in getting the writing done to fully realise the power of Scrivener for arranging, structuring, formatting, editing, checking  my text etc etc.
After an hour with David Hewson I'm writing and using Scrivener to the limit. (Just had to tell someone how great Scrivener and David Hewson are!!)

Ghost light - Joseph O'Connor

Ghost Light has been a slow read. This quintessentially Irish story of love between Molly, a catholic actress off the streets of Dublin, and the innovative protestant gentry playwright, Synge, is set in the early twentieth century when the stage was not a suitable profession for male or female. Both lovers are historically true but O'Connor has imagined most of the story and action. In reality, while they became engaged before his premature death, their relationship was probably not as close as O'Connor suggests.
The novel covers a day in the life of the aged and bibulous Molly as she crosses London for her last acting job. The story jumps all over the place - an inn or a bookshop in London, a theatre in Dublin or New York, a train in America or is it England? - as Molly's memory focuses then fades. She recalls their early relationship, their friends in the Irish theatre, times in America and their rupture. The first section in the second person point of view conveys the murmurings of the old woman eking out a life alone in the slums of London.
Joseph O'Connor writes lyrically but not economically. The plot is lost in thickets of description and the pace slows to a snail's pace in many sections. I read several other books while I read Ghost Light but am glad I persevered because it is a beautiful, sad and evocative work.

Time for Tabby

Cats have an impeccable sense of time - they stretch out into it, they thrill to the immediacy of life for a few hours and then they retire to recharge their batteries. Miss Tabby wonders what I am doing in front of this screen instead of talking with her. Humans have such strange priorities! If she is awake I should be with her. If it is dinner time I should be fully immersed in its preparation. If a mouse or other excitement crosses my path I should give it my full attention. If I am overtired or sick I should be resting. So simple really!
Instead I am driven by a plethora of shoulds. I should be cleaning the house, writing a poem, resting my back injury, walking the dogs, finishing that story, writing my work blog - all simultaneously, if I listen to my conscience.
Today I shall take a leaf from Tab's book and pay attention to one thing at a time and do it with my whole heart and mind.

Paying attention on the Mekong

Several years ago I spent two days drifting down the Mekong River from Thailand into Laos, and still it haunts me. While others huddled down with their books, ate and drank, or chatted, we found a spot in the stern. Mesmerised by life on the ancient waterway, I dared not take my eyes off its banks and streams for even a moment.
People in long narrow river boats tended crops on remote banks or nets strung across rocks. They rowed, or steered motorized river boats, between villages or paths to mountain fields. Large cargo boats passed us regularly, carrying all manner of produce and goods. Families lived in the helms. Children played sure-footed on the decks.
Unusually for me I didn't pick a book up for the entire journey. I pointed sights out to my husband or took necessary subsistence, but mostly I sat motionless soaking the experience in.
How often do we allow ourselves to truly be in the present like this, soaking in scenes and experiences that will continue to affect us years later? With iPhones, iPads, computers, and yes, even books, we allow ourselves to be distracted from our present, that is our lives, for almost every waking moment. I wonder what I will remember of the days I spent fixed to a screen of some kind in ten years time?