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It’s a book!

Posted by Diane Morrow on June 23, 2016 in Blog

I am delighted to announce that One Year of Writing and Healing is now a book! The book offers a quieter, more cohesive way to work, step by step, month by month, with writing and healing. It also offers a lot of new material. If you’re interested in taking on writing and healing as a project, this book might just be the perfect way to launch it. You can order the book here. Perhaps you’d like to explore a sample of OYWH before deciding? Download a PDF of the first chapter: Months 1&2 OYWH Order the book at Amazon...

Writing About Rain

Posted by Diane Morrow on June 20, 2016 in Blog, Writing Ideas

In a chapter from Writing for Wellbeing called “Writing about the Seasons,” Patricia McAdoo, a writer and clinical psychologist in Ireland, introduces a writing prompt with an African saying: “It is the rainy season that gives wealth.” She writes: Living in what is often a rain-sodden country, I can testify that you either have to see the merits of the rain or else just moan about it the way a lot of people do. It is tough when it rains incessantly especially during the summer or when a big outdoor event is planned, but rain gives Ireland a very fertile soil, making it a great agricultural country. There are some benefits like the saying above states. What have been the benefits for you during what might be called the rainy periods of your life when the sun didn’t shine every day? Sometimes going through a bleak time can make us more resourceful, more self reliant. What was your rainy season? What wealth did it bring?” I love this idea of finding wealth in unexpected places—and this connection between uncovering resources and becoming more resourceful. Finding unexpected treasure in our rainy seasons. I also love how evocative the visual images and sound of rain can be. Here is Ray Bradbury writing lyrically about rain in his story, “All Summer in a Day,” set on the planet Venus: It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. The drum and gush of water. The sweet crystal fall of showers. The words themselves seem like treasure—as if he’s seeing and hearing rain differently—uncovering its wealth. Try writing about rain? Try writing about a rainy season? Listen to a bit of rain first? Patricia McAdoo’s book can be found here. It’s a lovely, rich, and useful book and has this very nice quote in the introduction: “When I read that first book on therapeutic writing, the separate worlds of writing and psychology collided with full force. I discovered that it was all about the process of writing not the product. Because I liked to write fiction, writing for me was about endlessly polishing and editing everything I wrote. Writing for wellbeing is not about polishing and perfecting writing. It’s about expressing things through writing about ourselves, our lives. ” Her blog is here. Rain photo from...

Desert Places by Robert Frost

Posted by Diane Morrow on June 10, 2016 in Blog, Healing Poetry

Not long ago I noticed that I was afraid of something—I can’t remember what now—and the words that came into my head—unexpected—as if dropping into my mind—were from Robert Frost’s poem, “Desert Places”: You cannot scare me with your desert places . . . I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places. I misremembered that first line—but still I found the lines oddly comforting—a feeling I haven’t always associated with this poem. Oh. It’s my inner landscape where the terror is located. My response to this thing that is happening—that’s what’s nearer home—that’s the desert place I’m vulnerable to—and that’s something I can do something about? Maybe? Here’s the poem read by Robert Farnsworth for Frost Place: I find the whole poem compelling, but the lines I find most evocative are those in the final stanza—the ones I remembered—though that first line I’d misremembered. They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars—on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. I love the way that, right in the moment, the words and tone of poetry have at least the potential to shift a thought—to send a stream of thoughts moving in a new direction. And this a reason to memorize certain lines of poetry? So those new words and thoughts will come to us when we need them? Poetry as a way to revise the text inside our own minds? See I must go, I will go: Poetry as Respite and Transformation from this site Photo of Frost from Wikimedia...

Instructions by Neil Gaiman

Posted by Diane Morrow on February 28, 2016 in Blog, Healing Poetry, Stories, Writing and Healing Prompts

I’ve for a long time been interested in poems and excerpts that can invite writing and I’ve recently come across this poem by Neil Gaiman that seems especially well suited for this. The poem is a set of instructions for “what to do if you find yourself inside a fairy tale.” It begins: Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before. Say “please” before you open the latch, go through, walk down the path. I like the way the poem begins with such direct instructions—we’re in this new place—and already guided in how to interact with it. Gestures in fairy tales that will lead to good things: saying please; going through the gate; moving forward. He continues: Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing. However, if any creature tells you that it hungers, feed it. If it tells you that it is dirty, clean it. If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain. Yes. This is the way it is in fairy tales. This is what will work. The adventure goes on for many stanzas: A glimpse of Winter’s realm Permission to turn back An old woman beneath a twisted oak A river—and a ferryman. (“The answer to his question is this: If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to leave the boat. Only tell him this from a safe distance.”) More happens: An encounter with giants, witches, dragons. An encounter with a sister The way back A wise eagle A silver fish A gray wolf Arriving home The poem is lovely in itself—and potentially wise. It also seems like the kind of poem that could open itself to become a kind of interactive poem—and I’ve been playing with this idea. I’m also playing with the idea of embedding forms into the site as a way to lower barriers to writing. The way I’ve set this up is simply to link writing prompts to forms with the notion that any writing done on the form will not be used in any way for sharing or publication. Please note that it will also not be linked in any way to one’s email address or identifying information. In the landmark study done by James Pennebaker, college students wrote for twenty minutes at a time, anonymously, and were given no feedback on their writing—it simply went into a vault for research. And still, it was of benefit. The act of writing was beneficial. That’s my intention in linking these writing prompts to forms—to lower a barrier to writing—and create a safe space for writing which could be of benefit. You, of course, are also free to use the writing prompts without writing in the forms. As I often say to my students in the morning when I provide a catalyst for writing, please use as you wish. The writing prompts and forms based on Neil Gaiman’s “Instructions” are here. See also: The full text of Neil Gaiman’s “Instructions.” Neil Gaiman reading “Instructions” An article on the Pennebaker study from this site. An article on the potential benefits of fiction writing from this site. A writing prompt on “entering the tale” from this site. The image is from Neil Gaiman’s picture book, “Instructions,” illustrated by Charles Vess...

When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron

Posted by Diane Morrow on September 27, 2015 in Blog, Healing Books, Perspective

In When Things Fall Apart, Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun, tells this story—a story that came to mind as I was thinking about “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop. It’s another take on this idea of practicing loss by looking at it differently. By considering that what looks and feels like loss might be something other than disaster. Pema Chodron writes: I read somewhere about a family who had only one son. They were very poor. This son was extremely precious to them, and the only thing that mattered to the family was that he bring them some financial support and prestige. Then he was thrown from a horse and crippled. It seemed like the end of their lives. Two weeks after that, the army came into the village and took away all the healthy strong men to fight in the war, and this young man was allowed to stay behind and take care of his family. Life is like that. We don’t know anything. We call something bad; we call it good. But really we just don’t know. I don’t think this means that we don’t grieve. Not that. Sorrow is sorrow. But I think it means holding with at least some tiny part of our mind the possibility that the way things seem might not be the full story. There might be a larger story that we can’t yet see. And it seems like writing can be a way to consider and imagine this larger story. What if the way things seem is not the way things really...

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