A profound writing exercise

I just began year two of my poetry mentorship with Nadia Colburn. And something interesting happened when I practiced the writing exercise in our homework. I think it can be an equally powerful exercise for my readers who are writing memoirs, self-help books, business books, fiction, essays, articles…anything! I invite you to read about my experience and then try this writing exercise on your own!

Choosing authors

Part I of the assignment: Choose three authors (in my case, poets) to spend time with over the next year. Read many—or all—of their books. Place the books where you can easily pick them up—the kitchen table, your desk, by your bed (you should see my piles in these three places (and on the floor of my office, as well!). The only spots I haven’t placed books are our minuscule kitchen (no table) and the bathrooms.

I chose Ross Gay, Rumi and Billy Collins. I considered Mary Oliver, but I’d recently read a fair amount of her work and felt like going back to something else. I did wonder why I chose all males and judged myself a bit as a bad feminist. I also judged myself for not wanting to return to Mary so soon. It’s that Aries temperament that wants to move on to something new (in this case, old-new, but still).

Yet I stuck with my choices. And then I thought of my beloved e. e. cummings. I might have to add him to the stacks of poetry books.

Choosing specific writing to learn from (3 poems, an essay, a chapter…)

Part II of the assignment: Write out three poems by hand (if your genre isn’t poetry, consider three pages, or one chapter, or three anecdotes or scenes, or a full article or essay).

As simple as it sounds, I have terrible handwriting and do not enjoy the act of writing unless I am writing a poem of my own (i.e., taking dictation from the cosmos). But it was time. I’d committed.

Who would be the lucky poet?

• Rumi? Nah. Not quite in the mood for ecstasy!
• Billy? Nah, I don’t have his short poems on me and if I were to choose, that’s what I’d pick, because…Aries.
• Ross? Maybe…

But yesterday, during our final class in a year-long study of “The Way of Virtue” — Qigong Master Robert Peng‘s most recent course offering, an experiential and practical way of understanding the Tao through meditation, visualization, sound, and the six-organ systems of the body, the cycles of organ function and nature…I could go on, but this is becoming a long sentence—Robert shared two readings from the Tao Te Ching—the first poem and the twenty-fifth.

Last night, I grabbed one of my copies of the Tao Te Ching (or Dao De Jing in more recent Mandarin spelling) for bedtime reading. I started with the two poems Robert had read in class and drifted into the darkness of sleep with these immortal words:

Poem 1

The Tao Te Ching
by Lao Tzu
Translated by Stephen Mitchell, 1988

1

The tao that can be told
is not the eternal Tao.
The name that can be named
is not the eternal Name.

The unnamable is the eternally real.
Naming is the origin
of all particular things.

Free from desire, you realize the mystery.
Caught in desire, you see only the manifestations.

Yet mystery and manifestations
arise from the same source.
This source is called darkness.

Darkness within darkness.
The gateway to all understanding.

Writing the poem by hand in full—first “try.”

This morning, as I deliberated about which poet and poems to choose for my writing exercise, my thoughts returned to the Tao Te Ching. I felt a certain excitement as I retrieved my copy of Stephen Mitchell’s translation from my bedroom and returned to my office to write. I not-so-painstakingly wrote the first poem by hand. I observed some of my usual challenges—rushing the handwriting, an overactive mind running off into the future. I returned to the present and read the words again.

I knew that by thinking about something else, though related, I’d run away from the present moment. So I rewrote the poem again, by hand, again, this time staying focused, not allowing my monkey mind to hijack the present moment.

Well, that was my intention!

Two lines in, I lost focus, crossed out my writing and started again. This time, I would read the words aloud as I wrote to help me stay with the words.

Again, I wrote. This time I recognized promptly when I began to drift; I returned to the poem.

As I spoke the words while writing, the poem became alive in me.

I could feel the meaning of the words, not just in my head.

In my body, I experienced something deeper than the words. Like a primordial sound, resonating and informing my cells and organs of a deeper meaning that cannot be known by the words, the naming alone.

Ah.

Ah.

Ahhh.

Kind of what the poem was actually talking about!

Mind blown.

Writing exercise—just for fun

I wondered what it might be like to sing the poem I’d just “copied.”

I’d love to tell you I became enlightened, but it felt more like a distraction. I tried it a few times, with varied “melodies,” if you can call them that.

By the third round, I read one line in my head, then closed my eyes and sang it. I wouldn’t say I didn’t gain anything from it, but the process of writing by hand was more profound. Still, try it with a poem of your own choosing and see what happens.

I’m thinking I might also try the practice by dancing and singing or saying the lines.

And I might do it outdoors in nature rather than in my extremely messy office.

I do wonder whether incorporating these practices—singing, movement and nature—into our own work might yield interesting results. Lao Tzu’s work is unlikely to be improved upon, but our own work might benefit from different ways of experiencing it in our minds and bodies.

If you try that, I’d love to hear your results. I promise to share any results I get when I return to revising my poems (right now I’m immersed in organizing my chosen poems into a book that has some order to it–a starting point, a journey, a place to look back on the journey (ending doesn’t seem quite right here).

Insights from the writing practice

It struck me that what happened when I wrote Lao Tzu’s poetry by hand is what I am attempting with my own poems—to offer readers an experience beyond the words and their meaning.

I intend for the syntax, rhythm, sounds, metaphors, movement and dance (if you will) to come together to give you, the reader, an experience that goes beyond words and everyday meaning.

I want my writing to uplift, to make whole, to heal, to envelop the reader in love, wisdom and vitality (the three treasures of Humanity Qi, as taught by my teacher).

In Qigong Healer Training with Robert Peng, I experienced how our intention, supported by the Tao, invites the person experiencing healing to open to their body/mind/spirit’s inner wisdom. In my understanding, in the healer role, we are not healing but offering a spark, if you will, that ignites the person’s innately intelligent Qi (life force energy). This is how they heal themselves.

So much of writing is like that—whether we are writing poetry, memoir, self-help, business, essay, etc. We invite our readers to experience something that goes beyond the words themselves.

And in that invitation, they go on their own journey of personal growth, insights, new understandings and new ways of viewing the world.

Some of the most effective books (or poems) don’t necessarily instill our views, beliefs or systems in our readers. Instead, they offer readers a jumping off point for their own insights, perspectives, habits and processes.

Your Turn

Please share your experiences, thoughts, ideas, questions, poetry—you name it—in the comments below!

By the way, Happy National Poetry Month! Here’s a very short poem I wrote last year, inspired by the very short poems in Musical Tables by Billy Collins.