Glen Workshop Part Four: I Am a Poet

As I began my reflections on the Glen West Workshop, I shared two questions I had packed alongside my shorts and sandals. One of those questions was so basic it's embarrassing. Going into my first poetry workshop, I was wondering, 'Am I a poet'? This question, perhaps better posed as 'am I a real poet?' might come in many forms. Am I a real painter? Am I a real novelist? Am I a real dancer? Am I any good at this? Am I legit, or am I a fraud? Do I belong here, among professional peers?

The question reveals deep, life-long insecurities and fears. This tiny question can become an unscalable wall.

I shared earlier that the Poetry track was not my first choice. I had chosen songwriting, a path that felt safer as I've walked it much longer. When that door closed I had to walk through another, less comfortable door. It felt like a doggie-door that I had to crawl through on hands and knees. I felt humbled, small and unprepared.

Most of this fear, like most of all fear, can be blamed on faulty thinking. I had wrong ideas about poetry. I had caricatures of poets in my head. It seemed poetry was far more serious and intellectual than me. Poetry was for English majors and professional philosophers. There was a chasm of comprehension I could not cross.

But there was some poetry that I loved. There were even some poets I knew personally, defying my false perceptions.

Why are lies often louder than truths? Why did I choose to believe the frightening parts of my own story and doubt its comforts and encouragements. Why do I always?

Monday morning, I walked into my poetry workshop to meet 15 other poets, including our workshop leader, Amy Newman. I had read their work through plane rides and airport waiting, and had no idea which writing belonged to which real-life person now sitting around the table with me. My secret guesses were often wrong.

Over the week we talked about each poet's work for an hour. Because we went alphabetically, I was plunged back into grade school line up nightmares, forced to wait until the near end before my work was read. My question would linger until Friday morning.

But even before we arrived at my work, I learned much about poetry. I learned that I understand and appreciate poetry much more than I'd given myself credit for. I could contribute to the conversation. People appreciated my feedback. I was treated as a peer. I thought to myself how wonderful it was to be in a room full of poets, marinating in wonderful words. I discovered how precious good poetry can be. And then I realized how rare it is. This is not the time in history for poetry. It is not in fashion.

I learned, I think, what poetry is for. Or can be for, at its best. A poem can dive deep into a moment to discover the kaleidoscope of creatures beneath the water's silent surface. A poem can slow down time and draw attention to a bygone instant, because that instant was full of riches that should be savoured. A poem can hold a magnifying glass to the lawn and honour an ant's noble work – seeing the sacred in the small.

Poetry is about naming things because they are worthy of names. It is about memorials. To all of us sleepwalking, poetry is a wake up call into life.

Poetry is paying attention, and there are such riches to be unearthed by that digging. I heard a poem explore a moment when a group of girls shot guns into a lake in the American south. I heard a poem reveal a railroad spike's dreams. These poems stand out for taking something small and making it large enough to walk around in. I am grateful for them.

By the time I read my own work, I had shed much of my fear. And yes, it was confirmed, I had written poetry. These pieces I had submitted were, in fact, poems. And all of that could only mean one thing. Yes, I am a poet.

Those simple affirmations from a group of 'real life poets' meant the world to me. As I reflected on my week at the Glen Workshop, now winding down, those affirmations spurred me on to write my best poem, and perhaps my first poem as a 'real life poet'. This poem came from a bolder place. It is a poem with a little less fear in it.

So I will close this series with a poem that for me marked a new beginning. This is a poem about poetry, an 'Ars Poetica'. And it is, of course, about more than that.

Ars Poetica (On Leaving)

Poetry If your special magic is to pluck a single star From the vast night sky of time And pull that star apart into A universe Then do

The clock wanes And I will see only one more New Mexico moon Stars are shy where I come from I have to dig for them Beneath the rush and noise Of traffic-life

Twenty four short hours from now I board the airport shuttle In broad daylight The stars slipping Out of my naive net

Of course I cannot keep this I am no astronaut Stepping in slow motion On this moon rock There is no gravity here, to hold me No children No wife No friends with earth-bound histories

I would lose my tether and Pirouette into the galaxy Revolving endlessly round A center of myself Lost To space madness

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This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

The Glen Workshop Part Three: Instant Transformation Takes Its Time

I began my series on The Glen Workshop claiming, as Glen organizers claim, that a week can change a life. My change came in a flash of clarity that has been spilling its light onto practical, nuts-and-bolts decisions since my return. Those decisions have been surprisingly easy. That flash was hard. It was Wednesday afternoon and I was listening to Jeffery Overstreet's session at the Glen. Rather than simply read from his work, as most other presenters did, Jeffery had prepared a talk. Or perhaps the talk had pounced upon him, unprepared. He had adjusted his talk in a frenzy of last minute inspiration. The Spirit, it seemed, was moving. I listened intently to tales of Jeffery Overstreet's journey as an artist. I recount the talk, but scenes have lodged themselves in my memory. His story was full of failures and falters. Jeffery was wounded early on by love, and became afraid to love again. That fear held him back, not only in love, but in his desire and ability to create. He became starved for beauty.

I know from experience those terrible, suffocating walls of fear, closing in. I could feel their claustrophobia as Overstreet shared.

He had moved into a job where his creative calling was not front-and-center, but he eventually found life and hope in a late-night poetry reading group who met in some dark and mystic hideout. He told of meeting his wife, Anne, and wanting to journey with her but not knowing if his fragile heart could make the trip. His own brokenness was keeping beauty at bay. It was at this point, I think, that my own fragile heart began to crack. Jeffery's story then moved to what should have been the pinnacle of his career – publishing the series of fantasy novels he had envisioned for years, The Auralia Thread. A series, we learned, that echoed many of his own struggles with beauty and creativity and brokenness.

All four books in his 'thread' were out now and Jeffery Overstreet was still not sure what success meant. He still found himself wrestling between job and vocation. His own brokenness, and the brokenness around him, had not simply vanished in a magic 'poof' of achievement. As he shared that Wednesday, he was in the midst of a very difficult year, surrounded by tragedies too close to home. He was still searching for a beauty strong enough to pull him through.

But there was this moment. Facing deadline, Jeffrey Overstreet was struggling through a difficult scene in his novel. He went for a walk. He discovered his breakthrough in a form so small that many would have missed it. Jeff's personal mantra seems to be 'looking closer', and he must have been looking very closely that afternoon, through the Seattle mist, to spot a single leaf dancing in midair. He got out his camera. We watched the video. That leaf danced, suspended like pure magic, for well over a minute or two. The video stopped before the leaf fell. And that was it. Just a little dancing leaf. But it was a gift and Jeffery Overstreet recognized it. And I recognized it.

I recognized the voice of God in that moment whispering that there is still beauty in the world and even though life can be difficult and even though I can feel alone in my calling, He is right there. I need to look closer, but He is here.

In that moment I heard God say that my fragile heart can go one more round. I felt my excuses rise to pull that dancing leaf to the ground. I work too much to spare time for my dreams. Sometimes my wife's shift-work schedule makes it difficult to commit to things. Our single car makes travel difficult. I don't feel strong enough, inside, to do what I feel called to do. And so on. Then I heard God respond.

What if the obstacles in my life never go away? What if I can never pursue my calling full time? What if I never make much money from it? What if I always feel this broken? If this is what I'm given to work with, what then? Will I just walk away? Am I okay with that? Can I just set my calling down? Am I done searching for beauty?

And then my fragile heart broke.

Tears welled up and all I could do at the end of Jeffrey Overstreet's talk was blubber a thank you and make plans to chat later. Once I gathered my composure, I began to piece this awakening together. What had I heard? Why had my heart broke open? What was God up to and what was I to do?

I had not been avoiding my calling but I had been holding back, hiding behind those excuses. For the past few years I have been content to rest in the shadows and support my wife's career. It has been my delight to support her, as she has so often supported me. These have been good years, and I remain grateful, but I was feeling a push from the shadows and into the light. As my wife and I would discuss later, the season was changing yet again.

Two practical choices emerged, both significant. First, I could not work as many hours as I was working and get any more accomplished. The definition of insanity, they say, is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Time was something I would have to carve out, and not something that would fall in my lap. Second, we needed a second vehicle. The scheduling issues of shift work can be transcended, at least in part, with a second vehicle.

So far the changes are going well. I've just begun my new schedule working two days a week, rather than three or four. I am finding more time to write and to grow The Bleeding Heart Art Space. I've had some wonderful coffees with friends new and old. A few weeks ago we bought an old Subaru Forester. I am still struggling with becoming a two-car family, but that's for another post. For now I will admit that the colder it gets, the more at peace I feel with that decision.

Taking time away to think and pray and feel and commune with the Holy Spirit and the Body of Christ, I heard some things. Perhaps more than the Glen Workshop itself, it is this act of listening that is changing me.

My prayer now, back in the routine rush of the everyday, is that I continue to listen, and when I hear, to respond courageously.

Here is another poem written from the Glen, about waking up.

The Opening and Closing of a Door

The opening and closing of a door awakens me with recognition The sound and speed of it creaking hesitation The timbre and pitch of a careless slam

In my murky waking it rings like church bells And I am not here in a college dorm bed too small for two under threadbare scratchy blankets tossed and turned

I am in my basement bedroom coolness squinting sideways toward my wife still sleeping soft as sheets so it is too early But tell that to the kids upstairs crowing good morning with their loudest opening and closing of a door

As soon as I approach they all become mirage and I am left with my self missing deeply Scrunching my sunburned forehead

Yesterday I walked alone in brightness

Near canyon road I saw a massive sculpted portal white as a promise Circles circling circles daring entry A Narnian gate

And I wish that I could rise and dress my suitcase in hand To turn the creaking handle toward unthinkable light then step across the rot-wood threshold of home

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This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

The Glen Workshop Part Two: A Banquet of Beauty

Having arrived at the Glen Workshop late but in one piece, and having awoken my poor roommate, and not for the last time, I woke up to my first taste of Santa Fe sunshine. I headed to breakfast, gawking at the gorgeous landscape on every side. Turquise brush met turquoise trim on burnt sienna buildings hiding on burnt sienna hills. I crossed the adobe campus of St.John's College, past the tranquil Koi pond, towards the first of many abundant, delicious feasts. I ate very well in Santa Fe. From my first breakfast, I met incredible people. I challenged myself to join the conversation of a new group each meal. I learned a lot this way. I learned about art spaces and projects like The Bleeding Heart that had soaked up time, money and passion like sponges, rarely giving large returns on investment, but always worthwhile. This shared struggle somehow encouraged me. In other settings I could whine how difficult it was to get a crazy project like The Bleeding Heart Art Space off of the ground. I could bemoan being misunderstood. But here was total understanding. Here were those who fought in the same war, and having been wounded, rose to fight again. And again. Beyond my own excuses these were beautiful artists who made art work in their context, regardless of perceived success or failure.

Over the week I met remarkable men and women, most of whom have not made a living solely by their art, but have surrendered to its vocational calling nonetheless. They have simply found ways to create. Sometimes to not create for long seasons. Sometimes after raising families and establishing careers, to return to their first love of art making. But regardless where they had meandered across a lifetime, the artist's call remained a constant thorn and comfort.

You may recall my questions about what a real life artist looks like 20 years down the road from me. I met so many, with a kaleidoscope of answers. A few common truths emerged.

Artists are called and love or hate it they cannot shake that call. Artists find a way to make their work and surrender to their calling. Sometimes that way is their job. Oftentimes it is not. But they find a way or they suffocate. Artists are often on the margins of their communities, misunderstood and taken for granted. This is why the Glen Workshop is bread and water for so many creatives. It is a week of mutual understanding, where relationships put down last summer can be picked up at that same spot, and carried forward without disruption. Lastly, artists have an absolute overwhelming abundance of beauty to offer up to those who would only watch and listen.

I got to watch and listen a lot during the Glen. It's hard to overstate the blessing of simply witnessing God's creative energies exploding from his obedient children.

Each morning I would listen to poetry from my fellow workshop participants, every one gifted in some unique way. Each voice exposed to me a new facet of God's world. I saw with new eyes. Amy Newman, my poetry workshop director, led us towards some rich wells of words, and I've been returning to drink ever since.

Each afternoon I would enjoy the beauty of creation as I walked from building to building, or sat in the sun to soak it all in. Then I would wander the aisles of Eighth Day Books - a miraculous collection of arts and faith wonders. Then I would listen to reading, or view visual works by one of the workshop leaders. And then, after supper, I would do that again. Then the worship with Richard Rohr, presenting a faith I so wanted to embrace even when I struggled against its simplicity. And finally, some days, an open mic where the floodgates would burst with beauty brought by the workshop attendees. There was no pride or pretense in these performances. It was only, 'here is what God has given me to give to you. Isn't it cool?'. And it was always cool.

On our day off, I wandered downhill into Santa Fe's downtown with two friends I'd made. I won't go into detail to avoid a travelogue, but suffice it to say any creative person must visit Santa Fe. Canyon Road alone boasts a hundred galleries in a single mile. I have never seen anything like the quantity and quality of work on display here.

Later that night I crammed into the apartment of Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet for a gathering called The Thomas Parker Society. It was an intimate night where anyone could get up and read work they'd written or work by someone else that had moved them. There was both laughter and tears. I learned that this spontaneous happening happens spontaneously every year at the Glen, and that one talented man brews special beer to share just for the occasion. Another beautiful gift offered up to community.

As the week came to a close under that final Santa Fe moon I became sad for one reason. I knew that one cannot live with so much beauty always. I knew that this was only a foretaste of glory divine, a thin space where I could not breathe for long.

But for a week I feasted. And in gratitude for that feast, I wrote this poem.

I Just Want to Say

I just want to say (And not just, because I could gush) That you are each beautiful Your particular shimmer Bright as Santa Fe And I did not expect that Gift Or the long conversation Threaded through myriad mouths Across a week of dinners and Walks and waiting Each voice building on the last You, Christ's speech To my hungry ears

I just want to say That compliments are easy But not encouragement that I can believe And I believe you all Truth in love Church

I leave larger Mended where I knew no break Seeds in my spirit A garden growing You have no idea what you've planted In me

I just want to say that

Oh, and thank you

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This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

On Descending Into New Mexico (Glen Workshop Part One)

The first in a four part reflection on the Glen Workshop, in which Dave Von Bieker gets scared, gets brave, and almost doesn't attend the Glen Workshop.

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When you market your event with the tagline, 'a week can change a life', you're stepping out onto some high, spindly limbs. First off, for an arts workshop with rich roots in writing, it can sound a bit cliché. We artists can be jaded folk, after all. And if that line is to be taken seriously, it presents a grand promise. A promise that must be proven. It's a risk, but as this year's theme was Art and Risk, I suppose the Glen was well aware.

I can attest that the gamble paid off. A week at the Glen has changed my life, in ways both concrete and abstract beyond my comprehension. I am still not sure exactly why, in the middle of the Wednesday session with Jeffery Overstreet, I began to cry and was unable to stop completely for an hour. God was working in very real, mysterious ways throughout the Glen, and my own experience culminated in that Wednesday awakening, which I'll return to later.

First, let me explain what the Glen Workshop is. I attended one of two versions - the Glen West in Santa Fe, New Mexico. For one fee, you get a week's worth of art, spiritual formation, workshops, community, accommodations and food. Afternoons and evenings are packed with presentations by artists across several disciplines. We saw photographs of freckled faces. We heard the first act of a play. We viewed paintings and soaked in poetry. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan Priest led us in brief but deep evening ecumenical worship. Mornings at the Glen are for workshops, in the arts discipline of your choosing. There are several options, including one for those wanting a tasty sampler, called the Explorer's Track. I chose Songwriting. At least until it was cancelled.

My road to the Glen was rather rocky, and perhaps that should have clued me in that something important was going to happen to me there. On the other side of every mountain is a valley, after all, and every peak must be climbed.

The first stumble in my journey came as an ominous email informing me the Songwriting track was cancelled due to lack of interest. I had mustered up the courage to register. My wife assured me that it was OK. It was worth the investment. I was worth the investment. I'd paid all my fees (which led to other problems I'll get into later). I'd booked my flights. My track now cancelled, I could get a refund, but not on the plane tickets. I was going to Santa Fe in July, but now I had to choose what type of artist I wanted to be.

I likely knew instantly that I should take Poetry, but Poetry terrified me. Even at a conference about Art and Risk, Poetry was too risky – too difficult. I toyed with safer options, but didn't feel right about them. I was offering up too much time and money to play this week safe. At the encouragement of friends, I signed on for the one Poetry track I felt to be the safest of two offerings.

Then the second email arrived. That Poetry track was full. Would I take the other one? I sweat it out anxiously. You see, to call myself a Poet, I felt like a fraud. Like I was playing house. And this particular workshop leader wrote poetry that scared me even more. Poetry I couldn't fully understand and poetry that sounded nothing like my own. Poetry that hovered above my head. If anyone was to call me out as a phoney, it would certainly be her. But as the line formed behind me on the sky high diving board, I could do nothing but jump.

Somewhere in the free fall, just about to be consoled by my own courage, I received another blow. An email arrived telling me that the company handling online registrations for the Glen Workshop had not been paying the Glen. They took my money, but never handed it over, and most likely would not. Because I had paid early on and all at once, I had in fact not paid. Would I have to pay twice? Could I not attend at all?

Was all of this a sign to just stay home and stop trying to be someone I am not?

Well I obviously went to the Glen Workshop, and they masterfully handled the payment situation. And no, these setbacks were not signs to stay home. But they also weren't over yet.

The morning of the Glen, alarm set to 3 AM for a 6 AM flight to Santa Fe, my answering machine picked up a robo-call from the airline. My flight was cancelled. No reason given. No alternate flight offered. Simply cancelled. I think I laughed as I rose to stumble towards my email and arrange last minute travel in a 3 AM stupor. Waiting on the phone with the airline for nearly an hour I almost fell asleep between travel site searches. In the end, I got on a flight to the Glen, arriving late but still before my Monday morning workshop. It was going to happen after all.

Knowing I had a lot riding on this Glen thing, what with the promise of life-change and all, I came prepared with two questions.

The first was simple. Am I a poet? Is what I am writing poetry – proper poetry – and would other proper poets think so?

The second question weaved itself through the week. What does a real, working artist look like? How do artists make a go of it and what life can I expect in 20 or 30 years? These foolish choices I am making now, where do they lead? I would hear answers through myriad voices across mealtime tables for seven glorious days.

These questions in hand, exhausted from a perilous journey, I touched down in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Waiting for my Santa Fe shuttle, I did what I felt I should do. I wrote the week's first poem.

On Descending Into New Mexico

Descending into New Mexico I glimpse the red rock And mottling bush And hear Bugs Bunny Pronouncing Albuquerque Al-bee-coyk-ee! And I finally know why

It's obvious that this is where the road runner Chased the coyote past Endlessly repeating backdrops Of burnt siena desert

This defining palate of turquoise and burnt peach Sunburn and dusted green Straining to look fertile

Everything in this landscape dances in duotone Every sign in the ABQ airport (Which they tell me is a sunport) Is sunburned skin and moss Dusty rose and sand-storm teal

I rise in my seat and lean for the window New food for old eyes I feel like a boy I taste dormant wonder Then I hear the bleep of the cell phone My seat mate has turned on, After undoing his seatbelt Both before allowed Tiny rebellions

We each have our ways to stay young

The airport is small and old And not surprisingly dusty rose and teal Salmon and powdered turquoise The seats are leather and ranchwood and rivets in brass I see, for the first time today, no signs for free wi-fi It is deceptively cold with air conditioning And the water doesn't taste like home

A step outside reveals hot evening Hot enough in the day, I am sure, to burn a peach Or drain the green from kale

The word 'southwest' rings out like a 10 gallon hat in Calgary, I have yet to peel the cartoon from reality

We shall see for here we are Me and the roadrunner On an adventure

Meep meep.

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This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

Beauty At The Table: Our First Arts Potluck in Review

Just one week ago, we held our first Arts Potluck. It will not be our last. The invitation was simple. Bring some art and bring some snacks. In my living room, propped up on every chair we could find, 15 of us shared, listened and saw wonder-full art.

I began the night by sharing its inspiration – an event held during the Glen Workshop called The Thomas Parker Society (at least, I'm fairly certain that was the name). A few dozen people had crammed into a rented suite on the college campus where the Glen Workshop was held. We read stories, essays and poetry long into the night. It was beautiful, intimate, moving, and sometimes hysterically funny. It left me hungry for more.

Of course, we have plenty of creative folks right here in our city. Heck, right here in my neighbourhood. We could do this. In our own version, The Bleeding Heart Arts Potluck, the evening expanded to encompass any art form.

Here's how it worked for us.

TJ McLachlan shared first, with a bit of an extended time and focus, seeing as he was with us all the way from Vancouver's and Emily Carr University. Having worked with TJ McLachlan on some pre-Carr projects, it was inspiring to see how far he's come, how his ideas about what art is and what art does have evolved, and what his grand hopes for future projects are. TJ talked about large-scale sculpture, installed in nature, outside the culturally loaded context of the "white box gallery". He spoke about work that is not a metaphor for something, like 'tension' for instance, but is tension itself, showing us an example of a sculpture whose very materials are in tension. There were some big ideas (should art convey meaning and how?) and some great conversation. We even talked a bit about what it means to be pretentious, or not, and how those of us who label others as such may be the most pretentious of all.

More than all of that, our time with TJ and his very artistic wife Cora was a visit with friends. Community was perhaps the most beautiful thing on display all evening.

What followed – the work you all shared – was a kaleidoscope of creativity. Almost everyone brought something (in one case it was samosas wrapped in swiss chard – some very creative food). There were poetry readings. We heard an excellent concert review of The Replacements. An original song. Ink sketches of the Canadian North. A capella vocal performance. Paintings. Art made in collaboration with children in India. Lego and collage by my two kids.

But here is what sticks out for me.

It's the last piece before my kids – up too late – have to go to bed. Aaron and April Au are with us. Aaron, a part-time player with the ESO, pulls out his violin, stands just outside the circle, and plays Bach. Intricate, incredibly full Bach on a single violin. The sound is perfect. No one moves. We barely breathe. Except my kids. Jack is play conducting and they stifle nervous laughter. But they are listening. I survey the room. We are all listening. We are all realizing, at this moment, just how incredible this is.

It hits me all at once. I've been with hundreds of creative people for an intensive week, hundreds of miles away, at The Glen Workshop. But I don't need to travel at all to experience art, faith and community. I am blessed. I live here, on the fringe of Alberta Ave. Blocks away from this violin virtuoso. So close that here, in my living room, my kids get to experience something I never did. A house blessing. I choke back a few good tears.

Moments like this are why we do Bleeding Heart Arts Potlucks – why The Bleeding Heart does anything at all.

If you were not with us, and now, having read this, wish you were, I have succeeded.

What will you bring next time?