“The world is an uncomfortable place.”
I recently attended an online writing workshop facilitated by an accomplished author, poet, and storyteller, who began by saying this. Then they suggested one way to get through unpleasant or uncomfortable incidents is writing about them.
I tend to agree. The act of writing helps me to clarify my thoughts and understand my emotions. But writing is not only an intellectual and emotional practice; it is also a spiritual one.
This was not always true for me. I discovered writing as a spiritual practice, as a path forward and a way through a most challenging and unpleasant time, in July, 2020 through a Spiritual Poetry Writing workshop led by Tiferet’s founder and publisher, Donna Baier Stein. I wrote about my weekly attendance here last year and shared a poem I’d written about the challenge of maintaining my spiritual balance when I feel overwhelmed by the demands of daily life.
This balance is what the Mussar tradition within Judaism defines as the soul-trait of equanimity—menuchat ha-nefesh, literally, calmness of the soul. It is “an inner quality we can cultivate to equip ourselves to handle the inevitable ups and downs of life” (Alan Morinis, Everyday Holiness, p. 100).
In celebration of the 30th anniversary of National Poetry Month, I’d like to share two poems and tell their origin stories to illustrate how Donna encourages our creativity and nurtures our souls. Perhaps it will inspire you to write.
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Beginning in January, Donna gave us the option each week to practice writing poems in different forms. Some were familiar, such as sonnets and haikus, and required little explanation. For the less familiar forms, she would include an explanation on the slide with the prompt, and remind us that, like with the prompt, we were free to choose to ignore her suggestions.
During our nearly six years of reading and writing spiritual poetry together, I’ve more often than not chosen my own prompts—words or lines that “jumped out at me” and inspired a response. So I was surprised by my enthusiasm for writing a pantoum when Donna suggested this form.
According to the Academy of American Poets, the pantoum originated in Malaysia in the fifteenth century as a short folk poem, typically made up of two rhyming couplets that were recited or sung. However, as the pantoum spread, Western writers altered and adapted the form.
Now, Donna explained, a pantoum is composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.
As she set the timer for 10 minutes, I set an intention to faithfully follow these instructions for writing a pantoum in response to the poem “You have nothing to worry about” by Dariya Sahib of Bihar. I chose the second line of Dariya’s poem as the title of mine and wrote three four-line stanzas, using the lines of one stanza in the next.
Be Free From Worries!
after Dariya Sahib of Bihar
Be free from worries!
It’s easier said than done.
Worries come unbidden
to occupy the mind at night.
It’s easier said than done,
to banish infiltrating demons
who occupy the mind at night,
unless you have the proper potions.
To banish infiltrating demons,
you’ll need Melatonin, Xanax and the like.
Unless you have the proper potions,
worries fasten themselves firmly in the dark of night.
Reading this poem aloud to my poet-friends, I felt enveloped by a sense of calm.
* * * * * * *
My second attempt at writing a pantoum turned out to be a lesson in practicing equanimity.
This time Donna’s prompt, a response to the lines “Because we can’t know / what comes next, we say…” of Danusha Lameris’ Omens, resonated with all of us poets. I felt the words flow from my soul directly to the page.
But reading my poem aloud, I realized that each line of the four-line stanzas I’d composed ran all the way across the page of my writer’s notebook. I’d written eight-line stanzas. I felt the opposite of calm, like my soul was out of balance.
I concluded, saying, this is not a pantoum, assumed a light-hearted tone, and deflected the positive feedback my poet-friends offered. Immediately after class, I typed a revision of the not-a-pantoum, experimenting with line-breaks, trying, unsuccessfully, to create four-line stanzas.
I’ve revisited this poem many times during the past six weeks, pulling a printed copy from my folder and scribbling notes in the margins. Last week, I realized its revision was complete as I counted its five-line stanzas in my head.
Because it was one in the morning, I whisper-cheered, “Still not a pantoum!”
High Efficiency
after Danusha Lameris
In life, we can’t know what comes next.
So I wash and dry and fold all night,
Into the dark, early hours of morning,
Because repetitive acts
give an illusion of control,
I do laundry all week,
Separating bulky towels from jeans,
Consoling my consuming climate grief,
Depositing each load
in the High Efficiency machine,
I squat carefully, squeeze my glutes and abs,
Lifting up and shaking out each piece,
Absorbed in my Pilates routine,
I exercise a measure of control.
In laundry, we can know what comes next.
I’ve come to believe that the practice of composing spiritual poetry in specific forms can itself be a spiritual practice of cultivating equanimity.
The form can be constricting and viewed as imposing limitations, and it can feel like a struggle to conform to the rules. Or the form can be viewed as providing a structure that supports one’s freedom to explore repetition and rhythm, and the playful use of language. It can feel like lying flat, spine stretched out, on a firm mattress.
I’m still practicing the soul-trait of menuchat ha-nefesh—calmness of the soul, approaching every day as an opportunity to seek inner balance and to accept life’s ups and downs.