To live will be an awfully big adventure.
{PETER PAN | J. M. BARRIE}
My writerly conglomeration - pieces of prose, poetry, and projects. A Colorist's Perspective is a literary journalism piece about a local artist, Wendy Franklin. The beauty of literary journalism is bound up in the flexibility of the genre, and I blended my observations with Wendy's artsy insights. I enjoyed interviewing Wendy, and the article reflects the laid back atmosphere of her vibrant studio, her passionate appreciation of fibrous textures, and the richness of language used to describe her artistic process.
A COLORIST'S PERSPECTIVE | Stutz textile artist Wendy Franklin creates whimsical masterpieces infused with colorful textures
Wendy Franklin’s Stutz studio is awash with natural light. A slight breeze filters in from the windows. Vibrant tufts of merino wool rest on her workspace. Bunches more are nestled on shelves – shocks of fuchsia, saffron, and grey. Powdered dyes and plastic droppers are arranged in trays. Segments of white silk, dyed silk, drape across the table.
A Midwestern girl from Ohio, the Carmel resident has been a Hoosier for over 20 years, and her art is featured at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. Franklin’s contemporary abstract landscapes are primarily silk, dyed by hand, backed by merino wool fibers. The fine texture is created by the shrunken wool fibers, “because the wool shrinks, but the silk doesn’t.” A subtle blend. “What you’re seeing, where you get a little bit of the fuzz,” Franklin explains, running her hands across the surface of her finished piece, is “just the wool coming from behind.” Her art can be felt. Handled. Experienced.
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A close-up view of Wendy's art showcases the layers of texture: the dyed silk fuses with the merino fibers [photo credit K. Moore]
My junior year was difficult, not because I was overwhelmed by coursework, but because I experienced an unexpected loss. I made the stalwart British maxim keep calm and carry on my personal mantra. Yet in the midst of my pain I found solace in writing. During my spring term, Professor Steve Fox encouraged us to practice writing in a writer's notebook. Inititially, I was reluctant to voice my innermost struggles, but once I started to flesh out my ideas, once I began to create, I rediscovered joy in the act of writing. And I began to heal.
The following pieces emerged from my writer's notebook. Each piece is significant on its own, yet together they form a fuller representation of my healing process. I incorporated them into my final project, a multi-genre collection exploring Randy Bomer's poiognant statement: "We are the stories we tell."
THE CADENCE OF OUR CRIES | a story of unfolding loss
“I miss Mei.”
He spoke her name – the only part of her we had left – and as he uttered it, evoking something precious and lost yet achingly alive, he held onto her name, drawing it out until the sounds wrenched into a sob. Heaving, shuddering, breaking from the depths of his soul, he released the pent up dam. The force of his sobbing shook our bedframe. Face flushed, he radiated heat. His hot, salty tears wet my face.
I held him to my chest. His tremors pulsed through me. Broad shoulders hunched, he bared his pain, allowing the weariness to pour forth. We are broken. We are both of us broken. As I cradled John, I wondered if he could stop. Emotions so strong. So powerful. He had never cried like this before – not once in the four years of our marriage.
Six months. I miscarried our first child six months ago. February tenth. A Monday. I usually forget days and dates, jumbling them together. They escape my memory. I tend to remember events, faces, feelings, reactions. But that day is seared in my memory like a brand.
RAW. The pain of our loss is acute. We cannot forget. Barren for three years, desiring a baby of our own. We were so close.
I took five pregnancy tests, just to be sure. For the first time in my life I saw two pink lines appear in the window of the white plastic stick. Incredulous. Promise of life. Yet hers was so brief.
I was afraid to believe. I wanted her so desperately that I hoped it was true. I wanted to hear her heartbeat. Then it would be real.
We never did. I felt the pangs of contractions in my lower back on the morning of February tenth. I didn’t recognize them initially. But they grew stronger. Closer. Intense pulls coursing through my abdomen. Regular intervals, like the ocean’s tide.
By 11 o’clock, it was over. I passed the bloody tissue. I couldn’t distinguish a form in the vibrant red swirls clouding the water. Thank God.
NUMB. I flushed away my hope. I went to campus. John drove me. Strange sensations coursed through my body. She was gone.
We named her Mei. In Japanese, it means fragile life. An unopened bud waiting to bloom. Delicate blossom. Our beautiful baby.
We are grateful for our gift. But we ache.
The tears fall, heavy and fast. There are no more words. Just emptiness punctuated by grief, but not despair. I don’t want to be cold. I want to feel. In this moment, we cherish our baby, torn from life. It is alright to be broken.
Holding my niece, Ella Rose, born almost a year after I miscarried my baby. Healing is a slow process. But life is precious and I treasure the fleeting moments and look forward to the day when I will hold my own child.
MEI | haiku
Empty yet full
Broken fragments meld gently
In bittersweet joy
FRAGILITY | a poem
Realization
Of loss is gradual,
Unfolding.
Try to keep emotions at bay
Unsuccessfully.
Ebb and flow, rising waves
Wash over my being
Tumultuous
Unlooked for, unwelcome.
Unexpected.
Shuddering sobs
Rack through my being,
Caverns unleashed.
Never held her.
Never heard her fluttering heartbeat.
Never felt her movement.
Fragile life.
She was – and is – beloved.
Unforgettable.
Mei
Cherished child.
Bereft, we mourn
Undone.
Healing –
A gradual process.
Pain, dull or acute,
Aches.
We remember our
Unborn.
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Stories intrigue me. Many of my pieces are framed by narratives. I believe literary journalism appealed to me because of the brilliant way that stories are woven into factual research. My next piece was written for a gateway writing and litearacy course that focused on multiple literacies in our current society. Spoken language and written texts are forms of general communication, and I am interested in learning about the ways these layers of literacies interact to generate effective communication. Cultural Literacies is a comparison essay that blends my expereince at an Irvington Starbucks coffeehouse with the Filipino Starbucks in Subic Bay. I explore these experiences as literacy events, which are described by ethnographer Shirley Brice Heath as being "any occasion in which a piece of writing is integral to the nature of the participants' interactions and their interpretive processes." I open with a narrative line to set the tone, and then elaborate on the meanings and connections to language and literacies.
CULTURAL LITERACIES |
Protean Shapes and Coffee Grounds
It was a typical fall morning with a brisk tinge in
the air, causing me to shiver when I breathed in
deep. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand out of its
warm nestling place in my coat pocket and
grabbed the handle. The warm aroma of coffee
grounds greeted my nostrils. In passing, I
noticed a new window cling announcing the
arrival of the Pumpkin Spice Latte, ushering the
seasonal change. Out of habit, I glanced up at the menu boards, although I already decided on my order. An array of the offered drink categories marched across my vision, formed in tidy rows: Frappechino, Expresso, Brewed Coffee, Tazo Teas, Hot Chocolate, Iced Coffee or Tea, Smoothies…
“May I help you?” The barista’s inquiry interrupted my train of thought. Smiling, I approached the counter and ordered a grande white chocolate mocha. My total was displayed on her register screen, but she announced it to me as well. After completing my transaction, I surveyed the room for a place to sit. As I skimmed the back corner with the comfy red chairs, I recognized two familiar faces. My sister-in-law Sarah and a mutual friend of ours occupied the desirable cushioned seats, chatting over coffee and chai. I interrupted them and we exchanged greetings. Historic Irvington is a small town and Starbucks is located at the heart of it, making the coffee shop an ideal hangout spot.
The song Lean on Me provided soft, ambient music. “That is the third time that song has played since we got here this morning,” Sarah informed me, “And I am tempted to just go and stand on one of these tables and bust into song!” Sarah is like that, spontaneous and fun-loving; it would not have surprised me in the least if she made good on her word.
A barista called out my order, so I took my leave of Sarah and Chrystal. My hands clasped the warm surface of the coffee cup, and I savored the wafting creaminess of the brew. Sliding into a wooden chair at an empty table for two, I sipped on my mocha while observing fellow customers. A hushed group of seven young women were conducting a Bible study at one of the larger tables. They were discussing John chapter 15; each participant referenced her personal Bible. Pertinent notes were jotted down in their journals. I wondered if they gathered here every Sunday morning.
At the table adjacent to theirs sat a man, alone with his laptop and iPhone. Eyes fixated on his screen, ears plugged by his earbuds, he was oblivious to his surroundings. His sole interruption occurred when he received a phone call, causing him to remove his earbuds. It was a brief conversation. Re-inserting his buds, the man devoted himself to the computer.
Another gentleman was situated at the table next to mine; his laptop rested on the round surface. Rising to retrieve his iced soy latte – served not in a disposable cup but in his personal plastic mug – he glanced down at my scribbles. “Beautiful handwriting; perfect handwriting...” he purred as he brushed by my table. Having obtained his mug of iced coffee, he settled into his chair and proceeded to locate an outlet. When he had accomplished his task, he began to interact with the Internet. After a time he noticed an acquaintance standing in line, and he called out to her. She turned, headed toward his little table, and took a seat across from him. Disregarding his laptop, he focused on his impromptu visitor. Chatting amiably, the mustachioed man revealed his Sunday morning routine, which consisted of Starbucks coffee and the New York Times. As the young lady headed off to her church service, he bid her farewell: “Say a little prayer for me.”
I nursed my coffee in silence, musing. A rack of newspapers sat untouched in the front corner of the shop, available for purchase or perusing, but none of the customers paid it any heed. They had their laptops, and what need had they of crumply, inky papers? My sweeping glance shifted to a metal bin of complementary coffee grounds – grounds for the garden. I wondered how many customers took advantage of the garden grounds, recalling when I did. That was another time and place.
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