Thursday, August 29, 2019

Living Large on Little: Part 1

WordSpaceStudios, San Francisco 
It was such a gift. Time and space in San Francisco to write. While there, I was able to work on a nonfiction project that's been growing in a Word document for a long time: Living Large on Little: How a Poet Sees Limitations as Invitations. This is the first of several excerpts. From the introduction: 

I grew up mostly in rural Montana. At the edge of our field grew a young plum tree. I loved this tree. I whispered my hopes to it and sat in its shade and…I was probably reenacting Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I was a bit of a romantic.

Beneath that tree, I dreamed what my life would be like when I grew up. Though I can’t remember all of those dreams, I do remember that my imagination sustained me. 

The farmhouse my parents rented was beautiful and old—over a hundred years at the time. It had no central heating. In the winter, our pipes would consistently freeze. The spigot mounted to the fence leaked enough water to create fantastical, three-foot-high ice sculptures. 

Winter mornings, my brother David and I would don our scarves, coats, hats, mittens, and Moon Boots and plunge through the snow to see what shape had grown in the night.

One year, the spigot dripped into a being an ice chair worthy of the witch of Narnia. It was so big, we could sit on it, and we did—taking turns being King and Queen, reigning over the white and gray landscape, ours to the edge of the visible world.

More to come next month....

Tuesday, July 16, 2019

Beyond the Visible


At the start of a my walk...

I was grateful to spend the last week housesitting near Face Rock Beach in Bandon, Oregon. I walked the long beaches usually twice a day, in between overlong work sessions.

One afternoon, as I headed north, I noticed that Face Rock was baredy visible in the fog. In fact, if I hadn't seen her before, I wouldn't have even known she was there.

On my return, the fog had cleared, and the namesake rock was in her usual pose of looking up at the sky from the waters. I couldn't help but wonder: how many things do we walk past in the fog of our limited perception, not knowing the presence of beauty just beyond the visible conditions of our lives?

...and on my return.


I spent a good chunk of the week's work on a new possible adventure--one that would require new ways of seeing, thinking, and dreaming.

We shall see (and I do hope with more than my natural eyes).

With love from the fog & the sun,

Anna


Friday, June 21, 2019

What will we send out?

When I created the Word-Painting Project, the idea was to do something that could encourage others…and cover my grocery bill while chalet-sitting for friends in Switzerland (I’m a practical poet!). 

Though I thought I was making time for the project, the project made time for me. It gave me time to watch the light on the Alps and the clouds catch on their peaks. It gave me time to listen to the symphony of cowbells on the Holsteins munching wildflowers on the slope of the next-door chalet. And it was a joy to share that time in words and images by creating a word-painting every day for ten days. 

Back home, the prints of those originals already arrived, and I’ve hand-addressed the first of ten batches to go out over the summer. This week, a stack of Word-Painting No. 1 prints began their stamped way through the postal system to their recipients, and I blessed them as I dropped them into the post-office slot.  

This was the last image I created for the Word-Painting Project. It seemed appropriate to end with a question: What will we send out into the bright world beyond us? Some days, the world is bright, as in sunny and good—like this summer solstice day. And some days, the world is bright, as in the harsh glare of a world in need. Regardless of the natural or emotional weather, I choose to send out something encouraging. And with it, a big dose of gratitude. 

So, in each of Switzerland’s three, official languages, thank you for being part of the Word-Painting journey: danke, merci, grazie.

Sunday, May 19, 2019

The Poet & the Bloodstone

Detail of Bloodstone Pillars, Catedral de Ávila, Spain
I am happy that this poem will be  published in the forthcoming Deep Travel anthology.  A bit of backstory:

Saint Teresa of Ávila and Charles-Axel Guillaumot never met. She was a Spanish nun who lived from 1515-1582; he was a French architect who lived from 1730-1807. Each of them built and left a largely invisible legacy. Hers was a vision of the interior castle of the spirit within us. His was to save Paris from collapsing back into the quarries beneath it by building a support city belowground. Today, you can read what Teresa built with her words, and you can visit a fraction of Paris’ abandoned quarries open to the public. In the poetry collection, Hope of Stones, you are invited to enter a cross-century conversation among The Nun, The Architect, & The Poet. This poem is from that collection, which was a finalist for the Tupelo Press 2019 Dorset Prize.

     The Poet & The Bloodstone 
     Ávila, Spain

Today is research day. First, The Nun’s museum. 
It brims with depictions of heaven speaking 
to the saint. In paintings, doves & rays of light 
descend & suspend above her upturned face. 
Speech ribbons unfurl toward her from angels. 
The saint was known to levitate, so I half expect
the painted words to lift from their composition 
& twirl about. They stay put. 
                                                   Next, the Catedral 
de Ávila. Here, I see the grandeur The Nun left 
behind. This church was built with bloodstone—
granite shot through with iron. It looks like 
history has bled across the walls. The stone came
from a nearby quarry, & I think of The Architect. 
What we pull from the earth & what we do with it. 
I sit a long while on a hard pew, but my most 
profound thought is how best to get to the train 
station tomorrow. 
                                 Time to search for gazpacho 
Rioja—things that don’t last for centuries. I keep 
forgetting that in this country, I’m an outsider 
trying to dine before nine. 
                                               The Nun founded 
her simple convent outside the city walls. 
Paris thought The Architect an outsider 
for not being born in France. I am always looking
for what lies outside—even dining hours. 
                                                                         I find
an open café & order wine the color of bloodstone.




Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Poetry in Five Minutes or Less


For this year's National Poetry Month, I shared lickety-split bits of micropoetry each day on Instagram. My rules: use photos I took each day and write the poetry in five minutes or less. (This was a fun break from my norm of a bazillion revisions!) Here are six of my favs....


1.
Orange marries mint
where the berries lie
on tile blue as night sky
before dreaming begins.



4.
If perfection exists,
might she don the disguise
of wild flowers in a little 
glass on a rainy day?




8.
We know every exit
is an entrance elsewhere,
but we don’t know the where—
else how would mystery visit?




10.
We dwell all the way
to the horizon of our lives. 
May the view from the sill
of our hearts be vast.




25.
Everywhere, beauty
shines her light—
unfurling petals,
greening leaves.
Even the shadows smile 
at her bright excess.



28.
The constant fight with self—
who thinks she’s beyond 
rest—is gladly lost 
each time my soul
insists on a Sabbath, 
& my body’s eyes
watch leaves grow
on page or tree,
& my spirit eyes
see all as new enough again 
to return to—with 
better work & world.

Sunday, March 10, 2019

The Word-Painting Project

Many moons ago, in a land far, far away, my life completely changed. I had been working for two years in Germany, living an art-filled but spirit-empty life. On a whim, I took the train to Switzerland to a theological commune my parents had told me about. 

You could say I had my mountain-top experience on a literal mountain top. There in the Alps, my life did a complete reset, and I started on what would become my journey of art + word + spirit.

At the time, I didn’t know how much I needed to be encouraged that there was something beyond my current circumstances—something more. (In fact, I wrote & illustrated a children’s book inspired by that journey.) 

In late May and early June, I’ll be back in Switzerland to teach poetry. Afterward, I’m returning to that alpine village and taking a 10-day creativity retreat—my own personal pilgrimage. But this time around, I’d like to invite you to share the journey. Specifically, I’d like to share a little project of encouragement….

The Word-Painting Project

Do you ever wish a bit of encouragement would just arrive on your doorstep? Consider this an invitation to receive some!

During 10 days in June, I’ll create 10 little word-paintings. Though I don’t yet know exactly what they’ll be, I know that they’ll be inspired by taking heart. (You can see a similar idea by checking out the watercolor/micropoetry pieces I created while at a writing residency last fall.) And I'll share the word-paintings each day on Instagram, Wi-Fi permitting!

Once I’m back home, I’ll make archival, matte, 5" x 5" postcard prints of the originals. 

Sign up for the project, and I’ll sign, hand-address, & mail the postcards to you—one per week, for 10 weeks. You’ll get a tangible word of encouragement in your mailbox—your actual snail-mail-box!

Cost: $25 to addresses within the US ($30 outside the US)

You can also order the project as a gift for someone else—just send me their mailing address. 

And as a fun finale: the project will conclude with a poetry reading & art reception to display the originals in San Francisco on August 17 (more details on that event to come). 

Sign up online: 

~ Visit the payment page at annaelkins.com.
~ In the "amount" field, enter the total for your desired batch of word-painting projects.
~ In the "description" field, write your mailing address and/or the recipient's address.

Or sign up with snail mail:

~ Send a check—along with your mailing address/es—to: 

   Anna Elkins | PO Box 509 | Jacksonville, OR 97530

Questions? Email me: ae@annaelkins.com

It’s encouraging to know that something good is on its way to us. Here’s to anticipating summer goodness! 

Saturday, February 23, 2019

Entering the “roaming stillness”


The book stacks were winning. Not the ones in the library—the ones by my bed: neat-but-towering stacks waiting to find room on shelves filled with the kindred books I love returning to.

By the end of 2018, I had three stacks. Something had to be done: more reading! So For 2019, I’ve committed to reading more books—the tangible ones with spines and flyleaves and the scent of possibility in their binding. More reading: even when life and to-do lists brim.

A dozen books into this year, and I’m back to my bookworm self. Happy reunion! I thought I’d share some favorite lines from my favorite five reads so far. Happy reading!

When Women Were Birds: Fifty-Four Variations on Voice, Terry Tempest Williams: “Silence introduced in a society that worships noise is like the Moon exposing the night. Behind darkness is our fear. Within silence our voice dwells. What is required from us…is that we be still. We focus. We listen. We see and we hear. The unexpected emerges.”

The Long Home, Christian Wiman, from his poem “Elsewhere”:

            He longs
to find some calm within
what he’s become, inside
the sound, a roaming
stillness.

Switch on Your Brain: The Key to Peak Happiness, Thinking, and Health, Dr. Caroline Leaf: “[W]hen our brain enters the rest circuit, we don’t actually rest; we move into a highly intelligent, self-reflective, directed state. And the more often we go there, the more we get in touch with the deep, spiritual part of who we are.”

H is for Hawk, Helen McDonald: “When you are learning how to do something, you do not have to worry about whether or not you are good at it. But when you have done something, have learned how to do it, you are not safe any more. Being an expert opens you up to judgment.” 

We Begin in Gladness: How Poets Progress, Craig Morgan Teicher: “Wisdom is born where observation and imagination meet, where the real and ideal touch….”