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be more with less

Courtney Carver is one of my favorite writers on the Internet today. During my year of living simply (see today's Sunday paper for an update) Courtney has been one of two bloggers I follow more than anyone else.

As a matter of fact, in a quest to simplify my online reading, I am currently down to two blogs and two blogs only for the month of March. Courtney's Be More With Less is one of those.

I hope you enjoy reading her work as much as I do. If you've been following my quest for simplicity, you already know I haven't gotten very far. I've never met Courtney in person, but she is my mentor-of-choice on this particular journey.

Enjoy.

a simple year

Have a little extra time on this snowy morning? Click on over to www.lotusandrabbit.com to read an update on my quest for a simple year.

Thanks for reading ...

have we forgotten how to be happy for each other?

Humans have gone public with their gratitude.

People who, in the past, may have tucked gratitude journals into nightstand drawers or sent the occasional quirky thank you note can now post their blessings on social media.

Perhaps nowhere was this public expression of brazen thankfulness more evident than on Valentine's Day, when the Internet flashed pink and red and downright mushy.

There were photos of date nights. E-cards. Photos of flowers. Photos of adorable sock monkeys tucked into heart-frosted coffee cups. There was even the occasional fretful post—I think he forgot, no wait, he does love me!

It's not just Valentine's Day, of course. Humans have become obsessed with thanking, congratulating, and complimenting one another online. (Don't believe it? Try changing your Facebook profile page to a current photo of yourself and let the positive affirmations rain on your grumpy parade.)

So ... here's what I would like to know: What the heck is wrong with that?

Some say public expressions of "gratitude" are nothing more thinly veiled boastfulness. We don't want to see the sunset from Bora Bora, they say, when our front yards are locked in layers of ice and snow. Don't post a selfie of you and your dashing date while we are mucking our way through divorce. Be quiet about your child's latest accomplishment, because ours didn't get a part in that play.

Some people say we have forgotten how to express gratitude privately—how to celebrate without an audience.

But what if we've just forgotten how to be happy for one another? What if we are losing the fine art of applauding someone else's good day?

It's easy and safe to connect with our friends (and virtual friends) via the results of another online survey. (What Star Wars character are you? Queen Amidala!) It is considerably more challenging to connect with friends over more complex human trials and emotions.

One friend excels while another falters. One friend soaks in the sunrise as another struggles to get out of bed. Two friends uncover love, while two others resign themselves to love's withering.

And, yes, much of this can now unfold in relative public. We have become, once again, the smallest of tribes, where everyone bears witness to your delights and sufferings. We have, many of us, become celebrities of sorts, pawning our privacy for a few spotlight moments and a Facebook anniversary video.

We can't seem to help ourselves. Sometimes, we've just got to let our happy out.

And yet ... there are quite a few of us left (at least around here) who grew up in real-life small towns. We always knew the world was never as anonymous as others expected it to be.

So what?

Humans were designed to celebrate—to feel joy and to share it. So go ahead. Be grateful. Count your blessings. Gratitude is contagious. There are a lot worse sentiments to be spreading online.

On Valentine's Day, I found myself in the grocery store, surrounded by the giddy tsunami of flowers, balloons, and chocolates. The employees were handing out a variety of decadent samples, so my daughter and I decided to partake in the chocolate-covered strawberries.

Before I could choose from the bounty of confectionary wonders before me, the chef behind the counter presented me with a plain strawberry, deep red and gorgeous. He held it by its leafy green stem—a gift. Giving someone a strawberry is like giving someone a rose, he said. Beautiful.

Then he encouraged me to select a chocolate-dipped strawberry as well.

And so it goes. I was given two strawberries on Valentine's Day, one sweet and adorned, one luscious and organic. To be clear, the chef wasn't flirting. He was simply sharing the abundance and reminding me to appreciate it.

As I walked through the parking lot, I never worried that someone might mock or be threatened by my two-fisted indulgence. When life hands you strawberries, there's no room for anything beyond sweetness.

I'm not boasting about my Valentine's surprise. At least I'm not intending to. I share stories of gratitude because I can't help being dumbstruck by the fullness of living. I expect others feel the same way.

Don't make life smaller by being cautious in your awe of it.

Can we agree to forgive one another our momentary lapses into silly appreciation and our fawning over unexpected blessings?

Sure be conscious not to fall into boastfulness. But remain unapologetic about authentic gratitude. Did you fall in love today? With your family? Your dog? A song? A stranger? The best salad you ever ate?

Tell me all about it.

I'm happy for you.

calling all poets

Poet Jim Reese is one of my favorites, and he is also editor-in-chief of the literary journal PADDLEFISH. If you've got some top-notch poetry, consider sending it in according to the following rules:

2014 William Kloefkorn Prize for Excellence in Poetry The 2014 William Kloefkorn Award for Excellence in Poetry One winner receives $500 and publication in PADDLEFISH. Submission fee $14 (for two poems). All poets submitting to the contest receive a copy of the forthcoming journal. All submissions will also be considered for the forthcoming issue ofPADDLEFISH. The contest is judged by PADDLEFISH editor-in-chief Jim Reese and associate editor Dana DeWitt. All contest entrants can submit up to two poems for consideration each year. Each poem should not exceed two pages single-spaced. NO previously published work. NO simultaneous submissions.

Send a $14 check payable to Mount Marty College. In the subject line write Kloefkorn Award. On the submission envelope please write Kloefkorn Award. Please include SASE for the winning announcement. Submission period Nov. 1, 2013 - Feb. 28, 2014. The winner will be announced no later than April 30, 2014.

*Don't forget to include your email, phone number and mailing address on the REVERSE side of each poetry submission Send entries to: Jim Reese, Ph.D. Editor, PADDLEFISH Associate Professor of English, Mount Marty College 1105 West Eight St. Yankton, SD 57078

an open letter to self-published authors

I am currently making my way through a self-published book, or, as these titles are increasingly called—an "Indie" title. The book is interesting, engaging, and refreshingly free of grammatical errors. In fact, I'd say it's most likely strong enough to attract a number of traditional publishers. The author, however, declares within the pages of the work that he did not want to share any revenue from his book with anyone. He wrote it. He should reap the rewards.

My advice: Go ahead and share. The funny thing about editors is that they tend to give before they receive. They are the most amazing of creatures in this way, living to help you breathe new life into your own creative expression. Their names never get printed on the dust jackets, but you often see them on the dedication page, where authors grovel in print.

Think about that for a minute.

You, dear author, have no fewer than 25 pages of straight dialogue in chapter five of your book, and any editor worth their paycheck would have challenged you to rework that section into something less—ahem—exhausting for your readers. You also use the word malefic two times in as many pages. Drop a malefic, please. I get that you have an advanced vocabulary. Don't push me.

Also, I feel compelled to point out that, in one description (so far) your sky is "cerebral." A good editor would challenge you: What is cerebral about your sky? Because, as a reader, I'm wondering ... is this sky you are describing thoughtful or is it worth thinking about. I'm confused, and my confusion has lifted me from your prose long enough to question your intentions.

You may be quick to point out that I am a writer and a book critic, but not an editor. True. I have, however, worked with editors and, at the risk of sucking up to them even more in print than I already do, I would be less of a writer without their challenges and guidance. Sometimes they simply email to ask me what I want to write next. Sometimes they demand clarity. Sometimes they nudge me in directions I never expected to go.

Editors are like that.

True, I have also been ignored by distant, faceless editors (many of whom have presumably assigned some intern lackey to mail me yet another rejection letter) and I suspect you have been bloodied by rejection as well. So, editors can be impatient, overworked, ignorant, and jaded.

That's the biz, baby.

Allow me to interrupt myself here in order to interject my gratitude for the book designers of the world, none of whom work for the "Indie" presses, apparently. I know relatively nothing about how book designers work. But I do know this: Authors need them.

Readers need them even more.

Your book, dear author, has a spine that prohibits me from reading the first word in every line unless I crack it like dried bark, releasing the pages from their discount-glue binding. And please do not get me started on the too-shiny, too-slippery covers that seem to grace every one of these titles. I dropped your book—seriously, it slipped out of my hands. The first time I touched it, I left a fingerprint that has yet to smudge off. You need a book designer. Not a graphic designer. A book designer. Yes, that's a job.

And now, for my final irony. This essay will be launched into the world with no editor to urge it into something better, smarter, clearer, more thought-provoking. That's too bad, really. We all self-publish—in blogs, in letters, in emails. We all self-edit.

A book, however, is intended to rise above these other forms of writing, isn't it? (Isn't it?!?) A book is intended to be the pinnacle of a writer's offering to the world. When you hold that final weight in your hand, you are supposed to know beyond knowing that what you hold is the absolute best you had to offer. It was a collaboration, sure, and you will have to share the credit accordingly. That doesn't make you any less of an author.

It just makes you a human being.

I keep telling my writing students that that fear is good; that there’s no point to writing a book you already know how to write, that you aren’t terrified to write. This is the sort of thing that is easier to say to students than to yourself.

Anne Ursu

latimes

argusbooknotes-blog-blog

latimes:

Pete Seeger wanted everyone to sing. Everyone. He didn't just play music halls or college campuses. His performances were never really about him—he always (always!) invited the audience to sing as well. And, of course, he wanted to preserve and celebrate the old songs. Hymns. Appalachian tunes. Songs that slaves used to communicate and survive. If it was tucked into an old song book or shared from voice to voice somewhere in America, Seeger wanted it preserved.

Turn off the radio in your car today and sing anything that you remember from kindergarten or Sunday school or, if you're really, really lucky, from the songs that were sung to you as a child.

I understand that Pete Seeger is a political lightning rod for some people. But my father was a veteran of Vietnam. I served in the USMC for six years. We sang Pete's songs. I learned many of them when I was a child from my dad's old Kingston Trio and Peter Paul and Mary albums. As an adult, we sang them in the Marines. Because, back then, no one had iPods, but somebody almost always had a guitar. Military service is infused with long stretches of tedium, and so we got together and sang, just for the heck of it. And, yes, we sang some Pete Seeger songs then too. Why wouldn't we?

I also have detailed memories of sitting on a beach, during a training exercise, singing an Ozzy Osborne song with an entire platoon of Marines.

That's the power of music. Go figure.

Pete Seeger has passed away in New York. He was 94.

"At some point, Pete Seeger decided he’d be a walking, singing reminder of all of America’s history," Bruce Springsteen said at a Madison Square Garden concert marking Seeger’s 90th birthday in 2009. "He’d be a living archive of America’s music and conscience, a testament to the power of song and culture to nudge history along, to push American events towards a more humane and justified ends."

Here’s Seeger performing “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.”

dogsled ride

Dogsled Ride

by 301

I hear the dogs whining

Black socks protect their paws

But their noses are cold

I can see the chill down their necks

Slowly, up the mountain

Slowly, through the blizzard

On this wooden sled

Snow is a white blanket

Snow is filled with dread

Will it ever stop?

House like white bark on soft sand

Fire crackles and burns

It’s warm and cozy inside

Dog’s soft, fluffy fur

Warmthens my body

Whimpers

Cuddles

I am blanketed by their wolflike smell

Leave the world of ice behind

For my furry bed

(This is the 301 class poem, and I think it's as beautiful as the others. For this one, we closed our eyes. Joseph became the sound of the wind, and Alex whimpered like frozen sled dogs while we imagined ourselves on the side of a mountain, heading for the warmth of a house with a fire and a place for us to cuddle up with our dogs. Well, that's where we ended up anyway. Not sure where we began. Poetry is like that sometimes. I added the last three lines, although the third graders had suggested the words wolflike and smell. Stojan created the word "warmthens" all by himself, which happens to be the best word I've never heard before. Thank you.)

riding on my magic carpet

Riding on My Magic Carpet

by 302

Wind

feels like magic pressing against my face

Pushing against my face

—sweet—

like a plate full of cakes

Keep going

Keep flying

Flying into the wind,

up and out,

The breeze is smooth up here

I feel my hair, gliding in the air,

Feels like I'm shivering

Everywhere

Indigo Night

Cold Flight

Stars Flicker

Bright

Lie down and it feels like I am falling

Tumbling

I am flipping

everywhere

No time to feel that fear

Wind feels like magic pressing against my face

The breeze is smooth up here

Wind

Carpet

Magic

feels like magic pressing against my face

I was jamming with third grade writers today on a collaborative poem. Writers are sharing possible lines, and I am jotting everything down as fast as my pencil will run. It takes a while to get them to understand that the poem does not have to rhyme. Indeed this poem will not rhyme, although there might be some internal rhyme dotting about.

And, seriously, they keep trying to rhyme. One word, at the end of the line ... everything hangs on it. If they think of something that fits ... wowza. If they don't ... struggle. Disappointment.

So I push. Make them call ideas faster. Make them forget about the rhyme. Whisper their names even if they haven't raised their hands. These are creative thinkers for sure, so they almost always have something hovering inside there. More often than not, they whisper in return.

Let it out, poets. I want to know what words taste good to you. I want to know your pure thoughts. And, by the way, if I had written the line "feels like magic pressing against my face" I would be turning cartwheels. That's good, Alice. That's really good.

I did contribute, because I still get to play, even if I'm all grown up. In 302's poem, I added: "indigo night ... stars flicker, bright." I'd like to think it works. Plus I like the word indigo. Also I was holding the pencil, and I really wanted to be a part of those poems.

Finally, I rearrange. I show them what they said, except in a different order. Here it is. A poem. We were loose and messy and raw and we wrote a poem. Slip the bonds of conventions, friends. It's poetry, not a district writing test. There will be time for that. Fly free.

(I will share their poems in a different post, so the writers can read the work without my commentary on their awesomeness.)

poets of Eugene Field: Kadin

Crazy Winter

by Kadin

Icicles are drifting

from the buildings up above

and they are like snowmen

full of love

The wind is fifty degrees below

like a mixing bowl

spinning you up

tossing you in circles

and then dropping you

way down to the ground

and as I fall down to the ground

the wind is whipping me

around and around

like a snowflake

I drop down to the gentle ground

and I am laughing

joyfully

because everyone is wondering

what I am doing

I am a snowflake

drifting and swirling

all the way down to the ground

the poets of Eugene Field: Macayle

Best Friends

by Macayle

They help you when

your feelings are

down

They make you feel better

when you are having a bad day

They play hide and seek with you

in the dark

huddled together to keep

from being seen

giggle in the darkness

until the light beams

and that means

you've been found

Friendship finds you

like a flashlight

in the dark

A warm feeling

makes you cozy

Shine your light back

to Appreciate

all schools should be named after poets

(photo by Jane Walsh)

This is what my dog looks like when I'm not at home writing. She makes herself as small and as adorably pathetic as possible. She waits. Dogs are like that.

But this week I am not at the desk. This week I am celebrating creative writing with the kiddos at Eugene Field A+ Elementary in Sioux Falls. In the classrooms we plunge into character development, plotting, and pacing. Every lunch period, I unpack the manual typewriter and a few of us bang out some poetry. Fast. And often with an audience.

Here's what happens: Luna the typewriter perches on a spare desk near the entrance to the lunchroom. I unfold my writing glasses and prepare to type. Plenty of writers at this school carry poems in their pockets.

That's right. They carry poems in their pockets. How cool is that?

They approach with their poems and we type. If they don't already clutch something in their hands, they sit in a cold folding chair by my side and we spill freshness onto the page together. Time slips away and I look up to discover we are surrounded by a small gathering of children.

They read over our shoulders. They watch the letters slap the paper and try to figure all this magic out.

Because writing is magic. Those words fuse together and it's the closest thing to magic that we humans have. Music. Art. Story. I never thought writing would be a spectator sport. But they love to watch the poetry unfurl. The writers, for the most part, accept being watched. Imagine a hero in the center of the circle—creating—and being celebrated for having the courage to speak something new into the madness of the world.

We make mistakes. We change our minds. We stumble around for a good word, a better word, a word that snaps like jagged lightning. We pray our lightning reaches the ground.

We write.

Like I said ... magic.

Poets of Eugene Field: Mollie

Winter

by Mollie

Roof tops covered with bitter snow

Furnaces blasting wild like fires

Snow like sand running through the wind

Icicles like daggers

My horse flew through the bitter snow

like how a fire glows

Blanket as cold as night

Frostbite chilling through

your house

Snow falling like stars

Kids colder than ice

Forests covered with snow

But I am covered from head to toe

Coats getting bought faster than a cheetah

sprinting

Poets of Eugene Field: Lilli

A Winter Walk

by Lilli

As I open the door

to the winter

I can see my breath

like smoke

My ears sting

like a bee

as the snow crunches

under my feet

like leaves

Everything is white

as far as I can see

like a white blanket

covering the ground

The wind whips my hair

like trees

The icicles are hanging

like bats on the bare trees

that are towering over me

like skyscrapers

The frozen lake is hard

as a rock

The warmth of the fire

is like the warmth of my

hot chocolate

Poets of Eugene Field: Logan

Semi

by Logan

Boom! Zoom!

down the highway

they go

They carry ENORMOUS

packages

food

gas

rocks

like a stampede

of buffalo

They slip and slide on

icy roads

Sharp turns

Crashes

Flips

they have another mile to go

they have ANOTHER mile to go

they have another mile to go

until they finally reach

their destination

Creeeeeaaaak ... aaaahhhhh

Home we are

We are home

Poets of Eugene Field: Celeste

Egg

by Celeste

egg egg color pink

egg egg color blue

and this one here

is for you

egg egg polka dot

egg egg zebra stripes

this one here is for you

tomorrow night

Red Yellow Green Blue Purple

and this one here looks like

a turtle

I hope you like what I got you

because I sure do

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