Feeding the Lake
I have always embraced the concept of feeding the lake, derived from Madeleine L'Engle's beautiful contemplation on creativity and faith, WALKING ON WATER. In it, she describes how every artistic act "feeds the lake" of our human search for meaning. As we work at our desks or canvases, we may struggle and doubt. How can we express with eloquence and insight? Will we make a notable contribution? How can we compete with the great flood of impact made by Shakespeare or O’Keefe or Taylor Swift?
But everyone's offerings feed the lake. The small trickle that flows down the mountain where I hike finds its way to the reservoir below. As I stand observing, taking out my phone for a quick photo, I memorialize its quiet beauty and honor its impact. The same is true for our efforts toward art. Whether our audience is one or thousands, our work lends itself to the great purpose of witnessing being.
Sipping from Its Waters
Through these past weeks of late summer, I have made time to drink from inspiration’s lake with visits to Edith Wharton’s home, The Mount, in the Berkshires, to the Morgan Library’s Ballet Russe exhibition (which closes this week, if you haven’t seen it yet), the glorious Storm King Art Center upstate, and with hiking and nature—of course. I have been in a state of incubation, slowly stepping back into my creative mind now that finally my book promotion is slowing down (but not over—see below!).
To contribute to the lake’s gentle flow, we must also sip from its cool waters. We must make time to take in the beauty and complex essence of existence. Artists cannot create without inspiration in the true sense of the word—the act of breathing in, filling the heart and mind with possibility.
To contribute to the lake’s gentle flow, we must also sip from its cool waters.
The Body Never Forgets
I may have mentioned that I started my career as a dancer. I longed to perform in ballets, but my body’s natural shape evolved—let’s call it “uncooperatively.” I danced for several years in musical theater, but being in the chorus simply wasn’t enough. What I realized years later, after retiring at age 25, was that I should have pursued a different kind of dance entirely—one that was more experimental and pushed the boundaries of body and mind like the dance companies and choreographers I only wish I had discovered when I could still do 200 degree splits and quadruple pirouettes.
In the 1990s, I fell in love with Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company when I saw the classic work in memory of Jones’ partner, Still/Here, at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I delighted in the inventive playfulness of Mark Morris’s choreography, and saw him, too, when he was still young and lithe enough to perform.
Back then, though I no longer performed, I regularly took a ballet class for retired dancers like me. There I met some of the most important friends in my life—women who understood the depths of commitment and passion that come from dedicating your life to an art that is fleeting both in execution and longevity.
Just the other day, I was with one of them sharing the discouraging truths of our aging bodies. While we still remember well how to perform the movements that once brought us such joy, our bodies no longer have the strength to comply.
Any dancer will tell you that it never leaves you. Martha Graham, the modern dance icon, once said that “A dancer dies twice.” We die first when we can no longer do what our bodies ache for. “This first death,” Graham rightly claims, “is the more painful one.”
Even if you’ve never done a single plié, you’ll appreciate the dedication, insight and self-awareness of prima ballerina Sylvie Guillem who looks back on her life as a dancer and, now retired, still does a barre every day. (Thanks to my dance friend Dorothy, mentioned above, for the recommendation!)
It’s Book Festival Season!
Yes, it’s the fall book festival season. I’ll be starting in Brooklyn on September 29 where I’ll share a table with some wonderful authors who have become dear friends: Carol LaHines, Stephanie Cowell, Kerri Schlottman, Crissa-Jean Chappell, and others. There will be signings, giveaways, and great conversations about books and late 20th century Brooklyn when I lived down the block from the Festival!
September 29: Brooklyn Book Festival, Brooklyn, NY at Booth #225
In Saratoga Springs, NY, on October 5, we’ll be a smaller group of friends and authors, but just as much fun.
October 5, 10 AM – 2 PM: Saratoga Book Festival, Saratoga Springs, NY
Huge thanks to my beloved student Bambi Koeniger for setting up this solo event at the Norwich Bookstore in Vermont, perfectly timed for leaf-peeping season!
October 10, 7 PM: Norwich Bookstore, Norwich, VT
My last festival stop is a big one—the Miami Book Fair. It’s one of the most prestigious book events in the USA. Getting invited was sort of a miracle, thanks to a dear friend and fellow author, Robin Bachin, whom I only get to see when I’m visiting my son at Frost School of Music at University of Miami. (Yes, I have already told him to bring ALL his friends.) I’ll be in-conversation with Crissa-Jean Chappell, a Miami native who promises to show me where the real people go. And I’m really hoping that one of my son’s bands will have a gig that weekend—at least one that moms are allowed to attend!
November 23, 10 AM: Miami Book Fair, Miami, FL, in conversation with Crissa-Jean Chappell
Creative Writing Prompt: A World Without Sense.
I met a woman not long ago who could no longer smell. It wasn’t a COVID thing. Her olfactory awareness had simply faded over time until she could not smell at all. “It’s tragic,” she told me as I had invited her to write, starting with the sense of smell to call up memory. At first she was reluctant, but as the words began to flow, I witnessed a flowering of feeling that was transformative.
For the prompt, simply imagine taking one sense away. Your (character’s) world is suddenly silent or odorless or….
I rely heavily on my sense of sound, particularly when I’m out in the woods. I’ve learned to identify certain birds by their songs. I can distinguish a chipmunk from a squirrel running through underbrush. And I can tell when someone is coming up behind me. What if that world were silent? Would I find myself lost, even if I could still see?
Be bold on this one and remove a sense that isn’t easy to imagine. For example, what if you lost your sense of touch? Could I even be typing this sentence if I couldn’t feel the keys? What about something so simple as being able to feel the ground beneath your feet? It’s terrifying. Try it—through the safety of writing.
Happy Autumn Equinox, everyone. May the cooler days bring you inspiration.
Thank you, everyone, for your support. And to my paid subscribers, you are ANGELS!
AKMARAL: a nomad woman warrior of the ancient Central Asian steppes must make peace with making war
“A crackling novel”—Publishers Weekly
“A gripping saga”— #1 bestselling author Christina Baker Kline
4.8 stars on Amazon | 4.4 stars on Goodreads - PLEASE ADD YOUR OWN REVIEW!
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