A little slice of retreat

On one of my retreats in Michigan last week with one of my book groups, there was a hot tub. Only one girl brought a bathing suit, and three–who happen to be rather overweight–didn’t bring any. I got in first, then started working on Y, who, although she is the heaviest, is also the brassiest. Her Mexican accent got noticably thicker and sassier, as she declared, “I don’t care. I’m getting in in my bra and underwear!” Next was the girl with the bathing suit, then one more followed, also in bra and underpants, and another (after lots of cajoling and, “Come ON, S! Just get IN! Wear your t-shirt! Who CARES!”). Lots of giggling about floating chiches, lots of affirmation about the beauty of our bodies.

I took a break, but at one point, I poked my head outside to check on them, and they called me out to rejoin them in the hot tub. I got back in, and Y had everyone join hands, flat, palm-to-palm. “Now everybody has to make a wish,” she said, and they all calmly made the most beautiful wishes for their lives, their families, their worlds. I held my breath with the beauty of it. When everyone was done, I said, “Now what do we do?” Y said, “Okay, now, clasp your hands!” So we intertwined our fingers and squeezed tight. “Now we all have to promise that our wishes will never leave this hot tub!” and we all swore to never tell. And I never will.

Retreat

I just got back from a staff retreat in Lawrence, Michigan. We have a board member who has a home there, and it’s marvelous, not because it’s a mansion, but because it has love in it. Di Suess came up and did a poetry workshop for us, then coached us on our poetry prompts and methods.

As a starter, to “blow the crap out of the carburetor,” as she put it, she had us choose five nouns that sounded good to us just then, and three each of juicy/intense adjectives and verbs. Here are mine:

silk
apple
seed
cornflower
callus

bloated
slippery
clogged

tongue
wipe
open

(I noticed that I chose a lot of words that were interchangeable as nouns/verbs/adjectives)

Then she handed out “I the Woman” by Sandra Cisneros. Do you want me to post it? Oh, what the hell, here it is:

I the Woman

I
am she
of your stories
the notorious
one
leg wrapped
around
the door
bare heart
sticking
like a burr
the fault
the back street
the weakness
that’s me

I’m
the Thursday
night
the poor
excuse
I am she
I’m dark
in the veins
I’m
intoxicant
I’m hip
and good skin
brass
and sharp tooth
hard lip pushed
against
the air
I’m lightbeam
no stopping me

I am
your temporary
thing
your own
mad
dancing
I am
a live
wildness
left
behind
one earring
in the car
a finger-
print
on skin
the black smoke
in your
clothes
and in
your
mouth

from “My Wicked Wicked Ways” by Sandra Cisneros

Then she gave us five or ten minutes to write our own. Here’s mine.

I
am silk
the best part
of the apple
the rest tossed
away
the seed
sprouting
in your
gutter
my body is
a cornflower
I spring up
overnight
I am the red spot
after you shave
away the callus
my belly
is full
bloated with food
I slide over all
your slippery
floors
I clogged
the
toilet
and tongued
the dark spaces
the crack
of your door
I wipe your body down
and open you
again

She had us notice how slim and sinuous Cisneros’s poem is. Now that I look at it, I notice that mine’s not quite so. Mine has tits, you might say.