Old moon. Ice moon. Wolf moon.
This month, I feel I am equal parts old, ice and wolf. January is one long howl.
Howling winds blowing the roof away. Howling rain, then snow. Howling toddler. Howling heart.
A howl might seem doleful. But in truth, it is a cry of power, of community, a warning to those on the other side of the mountain.
My hunger grows extraordinarily in winter. I've learned I can bear the cold, so long as the fire in my belly is well fed.
there are a thousand women singing
within me
an ancient choir
vital and strange
kindred spirits of January:
frozen toads
snow, its quiet
hawks, their magic
the sky, the moon, their watchful nature
sodden earth holding footprints long after departure
that winter I heard the wolves call, how we howled in return
churning thoughts:
What if this here is the playground, the classroom, the museum, all in one?
What if the story, yours and mine, are the bedrock of the revolution, the paradigm shift? What if we treated them as such?
What if we have more power than we think we do?
Running this year’s installment of A Home of Heart & Bones (which you can read more about here) has me thinking about connection (and what truly matters), space (and how we fill it), and storytelling (as a paradigm shifting modality) and how these things show up in my work as an artist and facilitator.
connection
I believe connection happens in concentric circles. At the heart of all connection is the self. When we write/ create homes for our writing, personal transformation takes place. From there, we begin to connect with the world around us- the natural world, a small handful of other humans. We then branch into wider audiences. It is my belief that the deepest forms of connection, and thus the most healing, take place towards the center of these concentric circles - in our psyches and souls, our relationships with the natural world and the humans we are meant to be in community with.
What I’m fighting tooth and nail against in my own creative practice is to not fall prey to this idea that numbers, followers and subscribers equate to meaning and worth of work as an artist. Capitalism, and thus, social media, want us, nay, need us to believe that the more people who are seeing/liking/commenting on our art, the better. I believe this state of mind is neither true, nor ultimately healthy for one’s creative process.
Our brains are not wired for mass consumption- not for scrolling, for taking in all the information, for consuming as much as they do nowadays. We are wired for smaller scales. For the sort of 1:1 connection that can still take place within smaller group settings.
I believe a small audience makes for deeper connection and has the power to cultivate true community. Not a “I just hit my 10,000th subscriber/ in honor of 10k followers” sort of community. I’m talking the kind of community where the person who hosts it knows it’s members as well as those members know the person who hosts it. Where lasting, meaningful connections are made via the art (see also: poems) that are being shared.
From a recent missive in tending the depths (an affinity group of mother writers I host).
space
Epiphanies gleaned from a discussion regarding principles and elements of art and design:
I want space on the page and between each word. I want to decide what a poem means to me, rather than having something spelled out directly. I want to wonder why there is an extra space between one stanza and another, discover some invisible meaning therein. I want a short poem, as short as possible- to get to the heart of a thing so quickly that the rest of the page can stretch out, breathe.
What isn’t present can matter more than what is.
Space can lead to a honing of intuition.
Space is the element for me.
Of all the elements and principles, what speaks to you?
storytelling
I softly blow air onto a small spark.
There is much that leaves me feeling powerless these days.
We are living through unprecedented times on macro and micro scales. We do not have control in many ways. When we find ourselves at the crossroads of lack, frustration and overwhelm, it is often the perfect, most necessary time to take stock of what we have control over.
We have control of our stories. How we wield them, share them, use them as fuel for the fire of change. Both inner change and outer.
We have powerful tools in our hands, under our noses.
We mustn’t forget that current narratives have the power to change more quickly than ever before. Sharing a piece of yourself on the internet- the poem, the photo, the essay, the newsletter- is another breath on the flame. This, to me, feels like a flag of sovereignty planted against every “shouldn't-couldn't-wouldn't” that stopped us in the field. Our stories have the potential to create a ripple effect of change… the revolution is here, if we want it to be.
Often times, the power we hold is merely asleep. All we need to do is wake it.
Songs on repeat this month, two coals fueling many of the trains of thought I’m riding. (FYI the clips below link to the loudest parts of each song, so perhaps just search them out for yourself if you’re not into an abrupt bombardment of music).
If you’d like to work with me
Would you benefit from support in sharing your writing? Join me for a storytelling session.
Are you a mother writer/poet/artist seeking community? Join us in Tending the Depths. If you’d like more individualized support, let’s meet for an hour over tea.
With you in living the poem, writing the story, connecting through these things in meaningful ways.
Until soon,
yours in poetry,
Kat
Oh, I do love this!
Kat, I just so appreciate all of the words you share in this post, and the sensibility behind them. I, too, have been thinking about the magic of small groups and one-on-one interactions, how we are not meant to speak to everyone, but build actual relationships with kindreds.
The wolves, the howl, the choir of women ❤️ Thank you, thank you
Thank you for bringing me solace today