Doing what you don't know how to do
4-min read: Using a poem I (not-a-poet) wrote, as an example
What is this piece?
This is a teaching piece. In the spirit of show-don’t-tell, I will show you what I think it’s like to do what you don’t know how to do, and while not knowing, do it anyway.
Remember: I might be wrong. For you, doing the unfamiliar might be completely different.
You may do with what I’ve shown/you’ve noticed what you will. I’m not giving advice.
How will it work?
This piece consists of a piece of literary writing (Part 1) followed by some questions (Part 2). Preceding these, I propose a few ground rules.
Ground rules
If what I propose feels coercive, drop it and walk away.
Check your inner alarm. You matter infinitely more than the inquiry this piece ignites.
If at any time you feel unsettled, stop reading or reflecting, and tend to yourself. If you don’t know where to ask for help, see the UK and USA contacts below.
And an invitation: If this piece helps you (or the poem resonates), let me know. Just drop down to the comments (or pop over here where your comments are easy for me to tweet).
Part one: the literary writing
First, I’ll begin with writing as a gerund. (That’s the form of a verb ending -ing.)
A poem that fell out of my fingers yesterday in Writers’ Hour.
Process: I believe it came through a whole-brain/body mash up of an extract from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic and some journalling I’d just done using a passage of Marcus Aurelius selected by Kathryn Koromilas. Stimulus is magic, in my experience.
Frame: For the purposes of this “Doing what you don’t know how to do” teach-in, the important point is: I’m not a poet. Neither my activity nor my reading places me in or of poetry.
Actions: I gave myself half of yesterday’s Writers’ Hour and much of today’s. Then I told myself: this week, when I host Open Mic, I might read this aloud. People in the Zoom Room heard me say this, and said, ‘Read it to us now.’ Their response didn’t change my I’m-not-a-poet self-frame, but did encourage me to get this poem out.
Next, I’ll share the poem. Here it is.
Chair
The chair sat against the far wall, its high back a hitching post for scarves, a hat, some shoulder bags. Between it and me, stood fear.
At the table where I do my work, fear leaned in,
sniffing my breakfast. Swallowing painful, I lost taste.
When I wrote, fear read my words aloud, hot breath at my neck,
disdain dripping onto my shoulder, mispronouncing. My thoughts
garbled. When I spoke, fear rapacious picked apart my sentences,
my statement a vulture’s carcass.
When I stood, fear pinched me. Fingers twisting thin skin
at the tender backside where my knees bend,
meaning me to cave.
I caved. Pen in hand, I froze.
Folded, I’d crawl to bed. Sink into dirty sheets, ashamed.
Sleep avoided me, leaving me wide ---,
with only the ceiling’s cracks as company. Tick --- Tick.
Mornings my bones were heavy. Alarms
failed. Scolding fear, most certainly it was I: late. Guilty.
One night, I only made it as far as the empty chair.
Bed a distant island, my head lolled
from my barricaded chest
onto chair’s woven seat. Braids of straw
pressed a maze into my face. I slept, empty. Undisturbed.
Then pleasant waking of my own accord, my eyes
meeting the table edge, its four legs
equal to my night-time height. Equity.
From below I looked anew, seeing
my table (where always I hoped to make worlds)
plain barren, surrounded by vacant space.
Room enough for this sturdy chair
to sit alongside mine. I drew it up,
this chair where I’d pressed my cheek stood
ready to receive --
Fear came when I beckoned. I told it:
Sit still beside me.
Still, I say. Heeding, it sat practicing, bettering itself
to settle silent in the rhythms of my living.
Nourished, creating, out-speaking in fear’s presence overtook fear.
Two chairs. At my table, we sit. Not as equals, not as friends.
Just companions, I the wiser and more tender.
Photo by ilya mondrykon Unsplash
Part Two: The questions
When do you find yourself doing a thing you don’t know how to do?
Choose one. Notice: what feelings arise?
What do you choose to do with the unpleasantness?
What chair do you imagine? What’s your chair like?
Do you imagine a table where you do what’s important? What’s it like?
Which part of you — or your wider environment — will need to sit, practicing sitting quietly?
What’s worth doing, even when you don’t know how do it?
There are no wrong answers to these questions; I hope you find them useful.
Know someone who needs these questions?
Are you feeling unsettled? Seek immediate help (in the UK, call 999 and ask for an ambulance to take you to A&E) if you don't feel you can keep yourself safe right now. If you need urgent support, you can also call The Samaritans freephone 116 123 or NHS 111 (England) or NHS Direct 0845 46 47 (Wales).
Professional support when you're not in crisis from Mind UK is available Mon-Fri 9am-6pm 0300 123 3393 email info@mind.org.uk or text 86463.
In the USA, please call 911.
If you are outside the UK and USA, please use a search engine or ask your family doctor (if you have access) to provide you with contact information for the local services.
Would you like to hear from me again?
Want help with your chair? Book a Solstice Offer 1:1 Coaching, name your price (from £75 to £25 per session, for 3 60-min sessions) and choose our start date/time here.
That’s our two hearts and two heads in service of your one life.
Your commitment now will help me reach my PCC credential quickly, and so speed the growth of my Coaching Supervision business. My deadline is the start of an MSc in Psychology in January 2021.
Seeking a place to write during Lockdown2? Join me (and hundreds of others) at London Writers’ Hour. It is what it says: an hour to write, that happens to come along three times in a British weekday. It’s free and open to all who can access Zoom.
Writers’ Hour is a portal to London Writers Salon, a community that pre-dates the pandemic which digital technology has enabled to grow globally. I’m a Silver Patron, and participate in the Slack community and many of the events.
Through LWS, I found the Stoic Salon run by Kathryn Koromilas. Her 28-day challenge began on Sunday. You can receive prompts by email and also join a Facebook Group.
Itching to write? See Protecting your space to write by me, Kate Hammer.
© 2020 Kate Hammer. All rights reserved.