4.03.2015

The StoryCorps App (and the $1 Million TED Prize)

Today I downloaded the free StoryCorps App, which has been made possible with the $1 million TED Prize. I spent 20 minutes recording a conversation with my mother-in-law Jane in my backyard, while she held her granddaughter Georgia in her lap. I asked questions about moving from England to Canada as a young bride, raising her children and what some of her happiest moments have been. I asked her if she had any advice for her great-great-grandchildren who can someday hear this recording. I listened to her speak in her beautiful voice. Then I took a photo of us and uploaded it all to the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress. Just like that, easy-peasy, we joined the largest archive of oral history ever gathered.

You can listen to my interview with Jane here.

Let me shout this from the rooftops: Download the StoryCorps App. Go try it. Use it often. Have meaningful conversations with people you love. 

Below a link to Dave Isay, founder of StoryCorps, giving his TED talk on winning the TED Prize. "Everyone Around You Has a Story the World Needs to Hear."


I highly recommend listening to the full TED talk, but here are a few key excerpts:
I'm going to tell you a secret about StoryCorps. It takes some courage to have these conversations.StoryCorps speaks to our mortality. Participants know this recording will be heard long after they're gone. There's a hospice doctor named Ira Byock who has worked closely with us on recording interviewswith people who are dying. He wrote a book called "The Four Things That Matter Most" about the four things you want to say to the most important people in your life before they or you die: thank you, I love you, forgive me, I forgive you. They're just about the most powerful words we can say to one another,and often that's what happens in a StoryCorps booth. It's a chance to have a sense of closure with someone you care about -- no regrets, nothing left unsaid. And it's hard and it takes courage, but that's why we're alive, right? 
So here is my wish: that you will help us take everything we've learned through StoryCorps and bring it to the world so that anyone anywhere can easily record a meaningful interview with another human being which will then be archived for history. 
Imagine, for example, a national homework assignment where every high school student studying U.S. history across the country records an interview with an elder over Thanksgiving, so that in one single weekend an entire generation of American lives and experiences are captured. Or imagine mothers on opposite sides of a conflict somewhere in the world sitting down not to talk about that conflict but to find out who they are as people, and in doing so, begin to build bonds of trust; or that someday it becomes a tradition all over the world that people are honored with a StoryCorps interview on their 75th birthday; or that people in your community go into retirement homes or hospitals or homeless shelters or even prisons armed with this app to honor the people least heard in our society and ask them who they are, what they've learned in life, and how they want to be remembered.  
Every day, people come up to me and say, "I wish I had interviewed my father or my grandmother or my brother, but I waited too long. Now, no one has to wait anymore. At this moment, when so much of how we communicate is fleeting and inconsequential, join us in creating this digital archive of conversations that are enduring and important. Help us create this gift to our children, this testament to who we are as human beings. I hope you'll help us make this wish come true. Interview a family member, a friend or even a stranger. Together, we can create an archive of the wisdom of humanity, and maybe in doing so,we'll learn to listen a little more and shout a little less. Maybe these conversations will remind us what's really important. And maybe, just maybe, it will help us recognize that simple truth that every life, every single life, matters equally and infinitely. 

4.01.2015

Pure Gravy


Today is April 1st and the beginning of National Poetry Month. To celebrate all month long, you can find 30 activities from the Academy of American Poets here.

At the coffee shop this morning, the grinning barista told me he was super happy to be alive. He emanated energetic and upbeat vibes. He made me realize, when I stopped to think about it, that I too feel super happy to be alive. And that reminded me of this autobiographical poem by Raymond CarverHe wrote it shortly before he died - far too young at the age of 50 - from lung cancer. This poem, "Gravy" is inscribed on his gravestone, along with "Late Fragment."

Gravy

No other word will do.  For that's what it was.
Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving, and
being loved by a good woman.  Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going.  And he was going
nowhere but down.  So he changed his ways
somehow.  He quit drinking!  And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head.  "Don't weep for me,"
he said to his friends.  "I'm a lucky man.
I've had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected.  Pure Gravy.  And don't forget it."


Late Fragment

And did you get what 
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

3.24.2015

The Swing

Is there any better symbol for childhood than a swing?

Growing up, I had a rope swing hanging from an enormous tree in our backyard. It was the kind of swing that had a disc for a seat, and we could swing and spin high up and over our white picket fence. Sadly, lightning hit the tree during a big Midwestern thunder storm and we had to chop it down. I cried as I stood watching that tree come down.

I still love to swing myself but I also love to push little people on swings. Xavier has just recently graduated from kiddie seats to big swings. It was a big treat for him (and me) to swing with his cousin Mabel on her backyard tire swing this past weekend.

Pure joy.









The Swing

How do you like to go up in a swing,
   Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
   Ever a child can do!


Up in the air and over the wall,
   Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
   Over the countryside—


Till I look down on the garden green,
   Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
   Up in the air and down!

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

3.20.2015

A Little Madness

But green after green after green!...
It's spring, Poem, take us outside....
~ "The Poem She Didn't Write and Other Poems" by Olena Kalytiak Davis


This week the cherry blossoms are peaking in Seattle, right on time for the Spring Equinox As we do every year, we took a picnic to enjoy under the indescribably beautiful trees.  Like Christmas cards, I can track our family year by year from the photos we take. 



Pale pink blossoms, universal symbol of the fleeting nature of time, they inspire me to read poetry. I got a little carried away - it can be a rabbit hole: one poem leads to another, which reminds me of a line I have to go chase down and then that one leads to a whole book and then, well, whole evenings can slide by in such a pleasant state...I thought I would select one perfect poem to share, but really, what is the point of restraint?  It is spring after all, the season of exuberance.  So below are a few favorite lines and two wonderful full poems to share. Happy, happy, happy Spring!




A little Madness in the spring
is healthy even for the King.
~ Emily Dickinson

Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

~ "The Trees" by Philip Larkin

In Just spring, when the world is mud-luscious...when the world is puddle-wonderful...

~ e.e. cummings

What is all this juice and all this joy?

~ "Spring" by Gerald Manley Hopkins


Another Spring

The seasons revolve and the years change
With no assistance or supervision.
The moon, without taking thought,
Moves in its cycle, full, crescent, and full.
The white moon enters the heart of the river;
The air is drugged with azalea blossoms;
Deep in the night a pine cone falls;
Our campfire dies out in the empty mountains.
The sharp stars flicker in the tremulous branches;
The lake is black, bottomless in the crystalline night;
High in the sky the Northern Crown
Is cut in half by the dim summit of a snow peak.
O heart, heart, so singularly
Intransigent and corruptible,
Here we lie entranced by the starlit water,
And moments that should each last forever
Slide unconsciously by us like water.

~ Kenneth Rexroth 

Spring
Somewhere
    a black bear
      has just risen from sleep
         and is staring

down the mountain.
    All night
      in the brisk and shallow restlessness
         of early spring

I think of her,
    her four black fists
      flicking the gravel,
         her tongue

like a red fire
    touching the grass,
      the cold water.
         There is only one question:

how to love this world.
    I think of her
      rising
         like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
    the silence
      of the trees.
         Whatever else

my life is
    with its poems
      and its music
         and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
    coming
      down the mountain,
         breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her—
    her white teeth,
      her wordlessness,
         her perfect love.
~ Mary Oliver

3.16.2015

One Clover


A while back, I spent a happy afternoon collaging with friends, our host the talented collage artist Veronica Smith who specializes in personal mandalas. Veronica had invited us to drink tea and play with paper, scissors and glue. Collaging is not something I normally do and I found it unexpectedly soothing to cut and sort and paste and create. It felt meditative and exhilarating at the same time.

I was envisioning something full of greens to frame a favorite Emily Dickinson poem I had printed years ago in a letterpress class. And I wanted to showcase a tiny and fragile family heirloom: a four-leaf clover. This tiny green shoot, symbol of the luck of the Irish, was given to me by my father, who received it from a neighbor we called Grandma Edie. She had taped the four-leaf clover on a small card to preserve it and then she wrote on the back in her wispy handwriting:


"Found Friday
June 13th 1975
804 South 1st Ave.
Really was
needed."

I love to imagine Grandma Edie that day in 1975. Was she gardening, picnicking, reading in the grass? Did she whoop when she realized what she'd found? Why did she need the luck and did it hold? How long does a four-leaf clover give luck and does it transfer to future hands?

Almost forty years later, this is what came out of my afternoon collaging with friends...


I took this photograph of my creation today in the dappled sunshine, rather pleased with my novice attempt to make art out of something other than words. Now the assemblage hangs from its hook in my kitchen and is a daily visual reminder of luck and hope and spring...and that oh-so-beautiful word: revery.

To make a prairie
It takes a clover and a bee.
One clover and a bee,
And revery.
Revery alone will do
If bees are few.


Happy St. Patrick's Day!  Happy Almost-Spring!




3.11.2015

Nothing Is Lost

Nothing Is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.


~ Noel Coward