A memo, in poetry

Even when I'm not writing, I'm writing. I haven't managed to write a new blog post in several weeks, or a new story or poem in several months. But I have been writing: Five work applications, justifying in five different ways how my expertise and experience are well-suited to five different potential positions. A memo seeking approval of funding for a potential new programming initiative. Countless email messages seeking or sharing information.

My writing instructor at the "Writing With Style" course I took at the Banff Centre year-before-last advised us to write well even when we're not writing creatively; to make every word, and every moment of communication, count and be presented in as clean and as meaningful a manner as possible. It's good advice. Every word, every message, every note provides an opportunity to communicate and should be done well.

I wonder what it would be like to write an funding approval memo in poetry instead of prose. The one I wrote this week might have gone like this:

We are seeking your approval
to support the dreams
and aspirations of
600 million people, of whom
130 million remain poor,
not poor in spirit, or poor in heart,
not poor in ambition or talent,
not poor in ability or resourcefulness,
-- for if we were to measure these,
and compare them to ours, I
sometimes wonder where we would fall --
through this initiative that will allow
people to study,
to foster connections,
to spark an idea, or
to make a lasting memory
that just might change the world
or even, only, their own perspective of it

Three Books I'm Reading

I usually have more than one book on the go at any one time. A novel or two for when I have longer stretches of time, a book of short stories for times when I don't want to commit to a lengthy plot, a memoir for when I want to read about real people, maybe a book of poetry on the nightstand for a quick glance of inspiration. At the moment I am committed to three books, four if you count the one I'm scared of.

And the Mountains Echoed, by Khaled Hosseini, is about Afghanistan, and it is not about Afghanistan. It is a rich, sweeping saga, covering multiple generations, multiple countries, with families and friends tied together in ways known and unknown, discovering secrets and betrayals, and exploring love, family and identity.

The Heart Goes Last, by Margaret Atwood is dystopia -- and Atwood -- at its best, or worst, depending on how much you like dystopia, or Atwood. I dislike dystopia, but I like Atwood. Well, most of Atwood. I don't like Atwood's dystopia: the people don't feel real, they are paper cut-outs without blood, breath or soul. I keep shaking my head and thinking "Oh Margaret, really?" and then I keep reading. Because, well, it's Margaret Atwood.

Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace, by Anne Lamott, is soul-opening. Lamott writes about friendship, family, motherhood, community and faith. Her writing is simple, honest and real. Every day moments are as life-affirming as significant milestones.

And then there's Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, which details the author's quest to overcome her grief at the loss of her mother by hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, alone. Published in 2012, the same year my mother died, I remember flipping through its pages in the bookstore, overcome by tears within a few sentences. Too soon, I thought, and left the book behind. I watched the movie a couple of months ago. Over three years on, I felt ready to face another daughter's grief and compare it to my own. I made it through the movie (my fists, jaw and neck so clenched that a powerful migraine overtook me that same night). I decided to try reading the book. I read through the introduction, heart pounding, tears flowing; too soon. So it sits on my coffee table. Some day I will read it. Or maybe some day I will take a long walk.