Invitation to Evolving in the Wonderment

My father was a practical man. Not a philosopher. Not much of a reader. He was warm and loving, but more at home with a tacklebox than with a poem. Which is why I was surprised when, on his deathbed, eyes open but unseeing, Dad said, stintingly, more to himself than to me, “From our birth … to our death … the wonderment.”

Dad spoke as if stunned with the truth of his words. As if he were being widened by discovery. As if, in that threshold moment, he was being shown how to see his whole earthly chapter anew—every single experience and emotion, both wanted and unwanted, worthy of and illumined by wonder. Nothing left out. From our birth to our death, the wonderment.

The practice of writing poems every day for more than 20 years has offered me glimpses of such wonderment. I trust now that everything has something to teach me—doorknob, earthworm, bindweed, traffic, dahlia, spiral galaxy, drought, shadow, mosquito. I trust that when I am a student of the world, curious and humble, life reveals itself newly again and again, inviting me to evolve my understanding of what it is to be alive. Every poem invites a refreshed framework, a new possibility. Every interaction, including no interaction, invites recalibration of any ideas I have about humanness and the life that lives through us.

My newest poetry collection, The Wonderment, was inspired by dad’s words, and also by four questions that feel integral to the experience of wonder (not to mention creative process). How do I open? What is here? What else is here? How am I connected to all that is? I call these four processes The Opening, The Noticing, The Deepening, and The Belonging.

During my time at Commonweal, I am looking forward to exploring these four processes through my own writing practice, conversation, a writing workshop, and a performance during my residency. The events will include poems from The Wonderment, but also new work inspired by my time at Commonweal.

I already have a daily commitment to writing. Of course that will continue while I am there, but it is one of many daily commitments and part of what thrills me about being at Commonweal is the prospect of simply being, or as I like to say, nothinging. The glorious paradox of everything being our teacher is that nothing is also our finest teacher. That. I really want to explore that, something that feels nearly impossible for more than a few minutes a day when I am at home and working. It feels like an essential part of all four processes. I look forward to experiencing what might unfold in my poetic practice (and my own aliveness) as I attend more wholly to the everything present at Commonweal and to the nothing as well.

I am also a devotee to group life. Oh, the gloriousness of what happens when we come together to read, write and converse about poems! Though writing is a solitary act, I am ever stunned by the energetic gift of coming together around poetry. I love the intimate fellowship of listening and the open-hearted act of sharing our voices, hearts, ideas, attention and creative practice. Though such connection is possible everywhere—even in concrete buildings and pixilated rooms—I know, too, how landscape can become an integral partner in the creative experience, and I am excited to see how the Commonweal lands might inform a writing class on Evolving through the Wonderment. Ideally we could be together for four-six hours.

My teaching style is congruent with the processes of The Wonderment. I invite students to try on the same five promises I make to myself each time I sit down to write.

• I will write. Though I always tell students if they don’t write, that is also valuable. So much of writing looks like not writing, and a poem is really just byproduct of the real process, which is showing up. Showing up is the essence of The Opening.
• It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be true. Trying to write something “good” is a surefire way to shut down all creative energy. But putting the self in service to truth is ever possible and ever interesting. It invites paradox. It invites us to look unflinchingly at what is here, even what we might rather not see—which is integral to The Noticing.
• I can’t know the end when I start. And if I do know the end, I invite myself to write past it. Or write an alternate end. In this way, we can always let the poem know more than we do. This invites epiphany, surprise, new ways of seeing.
• I will play. This promise, and the one before it (not knowing), both feel integral to The Deepening. How does play—metaphor, rhyme, meter, repetition, imagination—invite us into new frameworks for seeing the same world in a new way?
• I will share. This is a promise I make to myself—and I do share everyday with 10,000 people—but I always let students know they don’t need to share. It is much more important to feel safe so they can courageously write whatever shows up. Before we share, I ask people to say these words from Bill Plotkin of the Animas Institute: Do you love yourself enough to listen with the ears of your heart to the other voices of yourself speaking? It is through open-hearted sharing we explore The Belonging.