International Metaphoraging

In the last week of January 2021, I had the pleasure and privilege to run one of three workshops that formed the most recent virtual teacher training conference run by European Association of Creative Writing Programmes.

We met on three consecutive evenings: 23 participants from 17 countries, world-wide. The remarkable (and very persistent) Lorena Briedis had been asking Simon Wrigley and I to contribute ever since she attended the Metaphoraging  workshop that we ran together at the NAWE conference in 2018. Simon wrote up the workshop for the website and you can find that in the archive.  I remember it as a little bit crazy as we crammed two hours of workshop into one. It was, as ever, hands on, full of paper and glue and scissors, cut up card and folded books and boxes of knickknacks and treasures. How would this translate to the loneliness of the long-distance Zoomer?

This question of engagement and energy, presence and connection, was something all three presenters tackled and I wish that I had been free to listen in to the other two workshops: Mariana Docampo from Argentina on ‘creating a workshop from the text analysis method’ and Renée Combal-Weiss  from France, who explored ‘creative tools to enable connections between home and the virtual classroom’ and, as I learned, had everyone writing stories together. In our workshop we collected words -and, as we heard them round the group, it was wonderful to hear many words not in English [fifteen countries represented, world-wide] and to hear how people who are already fluent in two or three languages were learning still more. I, as always, when in the company of others working in a second or third language, was overwhelmed by the generosity and energy of those who worked with me in English. What exactly is metaphoraging? one participant asked me. Well, it’s a word that Simon coined when we created our workshop, and it is a term I have come to love. I’ll write about it more in another post. For the time being, enjoy that combination of metaphor and foraging.

I had sent out a list of things to bring to the workshop; not simply paper and pen, but scissors, a stapler if you have one, a handbook or reference book of some kind and a small box of treasures to replace the treasures that Simon and I usually take to the workshop. People responded with such imagination and willingness. We made little flip books and invented characters and colours and put these together with various items of clothing to create a whole variety of possibilities: Marigold’s sky-blue skirt, Amy Spoon’s breezy white pyjamas, Chewsy Fingers’ sunburst yellow waistcoat. We worked within several linguistic structures and, a favourite activity, we foraged for noun phrases in the books we had brought with us. The phrases became metaphors as we completed the phrase “the moon is …’ The moon was transformed into delicate stitches through the language of a book on embroidery, the stars and planets each became a bird with distinctive plumage. 

Using the rooms where we sat, our collections of treasures, and even other rooms of our homes, we went on a scavenger hunt. If you have used a scavenger hunt, you will know that the search is, essentially, metaphorical and the language reflects that. Of course, and I should have considered this, some of the language sent participants to Google translate. It also drove us to new perspectives. We reflected on the swoop of a warm woolen shawl. We heard the story of the ‘footstep of a hero’ which was a clump of wool collected from the landscape of the `Faroes Islands, where such a collection is regarded as lucky. There was not time to put our treasures to full use, but it was wonderful to see what was in the collections and to see their potential for story making and as metaphors for writing. One person brought a great selection of cooking utensils that I longed to hold.  Amongst another collection there was ‘something hidden’, a Roman amphora, beautiful aged glass that is usually hidden away so that it is protected, and another footstep of a hero, shrapnel from the Dardanelles, so different from the soft sheep’s wool  from the Faroes.

On Thursday evening, after the final workshop, we met for drinks and chat. I was thrilled by the warmth and energy of those writer teachers and thrilled to be in touch with so many people, world-wide, who love writing and want to share its pleasures and possibilities with others. Lorena Breidis has worked tirelessly to arrange the conference and hosted everything with such generosity and affirmation. She was ably supported by her cockatiel, Juanita, who flew about the room, landing on Lorena’s head or shoulder as we all talked. Renee Combal-Weiss, who had been listening in to Metaphoraging, shared some lines from her response to Roger McGough’s poem, Me: If she were gin she would sip herself slowly, if champagne, she would allow bubbles to fly her into the air, if she were whisky, she would down herself in one. I raised my glass of single malt to her, as I raise it now, to all those writers and teachers, for their enthusiasm and imagination and attention to language, for the knowledge that we are part of a community that dissolves boundaries, that values both our difference and all that we have in common.

A Gift of Words

At our Norwich Teachers’ Writing group this week we wrote about gifts. And we wrote gifts of words. For me, meeting with this group - and with other writing groups – is a gift.

Each time I sit down with teachers to write, I am overwhelmed with the pleasure of it. How good it has been, over the last year of isolations and zooming and lockdowns and remote learning, to sit by a screen and write alongside others on the screen, writing, by their screens.

Of course it is not the same as being side by side - and this year we’ve missed handing round the stollen - but there has been a calm; and an affirmation of our lives, alone and together.

It so happened that our group met this week on the first day of Hanukkah. The Chief Rabbi spoke on Thought for the Day that morning. (You can find it on the Today programme, BBC Radio 4, December 10th 2020, at 7.50am) He spoke about the seven words for ‘gift’ that exist in Hebrew. Each provides us with a different way of thinking about the nature of gifts and giving. A gift can be a blessing, a good wish; it can be an act of appreciative joy, given in the moment, in the present; another word denotes the gift for special occasions, a thoughtful gift; and the fourth word denotes a gift given to a good cause; the fifth is a similar gift, but unsolicited, another example of giving in the moment. Finally, Rabbi Mirvis spoke of a gift that takes time, effort and talent in the making. It draws people together. It is for a greater good. One such gift, this year, he said, has been the development of vaccines designed to prevent the spread of Covid 19.

We thought about John May’s ‘Six Things for Christmas’:

I wish to be given beautiful things this Christmas,
Beautiful but impossible.

It’s a poem that Jill Pirrie mentions in On Common Ground (1987) London: Hodder & Stoughton. She asks us to think of memories so dear to us that they occupy a special place. These can be given, as gifts to those who might share those memories. This year, when we will be sharing festivities with far fewer people, and when some people we know may well be alone, it may be that the words you send them could be the loveliest gift.

Keep On Writing

I am learning, all over again, about the generosity and power of writing, alone and with others. I have been learning about writing all my life. I know it well and I am grateful. Writing has become an old friend, one who continues to surprise me; one who reminds me, gently, of what we have learned together. Writing was there when I fell in love and stood by me in dark times. Writing has helped me keep a record of my days, required me to focus, shown me how I can be a teacher, shown me what I think and helped me to discover more. Writing keeps me in touch. Writing allows me to create new possibilities. Writing steadies me. And when I write alongside others, I am enriched by their writing, by hearing our words on the air, learning new ways, new perspectives, acknowledging our shared humanity and our unique selves.  

Most of us, just now, have more time than usual to write. The need for writing, always there even at the best of times, is accentuated, suddenly acute. I have been moved to see how many of those I know have turned to writing as one way of engaging with this personal and worldwide crisis. 

A month or so ago I began to post ten-minute writing prompts on my Facebook page. I was encouraged to do so by a friend who is not a teacher and would not, I think, describe herself as a writer. She was finding it useful, she said, to write. I have continued to post these prompts. They are on this website also. And sometimes I wonder what on earth I think I am doing. Who am I kidding? More junk.

But I notice quiet responses. A like. A simple comment. A note of thanks: ‘I am loving this 10 minutes a day of writing. It's 10 minutes’ sanity.’ Another friend sends me a beautiful piece of writing about necklaces. I love it. I think there is a poem within it. She sends me the poem, the first draft and the second. We are connected as we are usually connected when we write together. Perhaps even closer. 

And then something else happens. People are beginning to write beneath the prompts. It began with a prompt to write about a recipe –and a photograph of some of my cookery books on the shelf. Crank’s Recipe Book, amongst the line-up, provoked a memory of vegetable crumble, cheese jacks (baked that very day), homity pie. On Easter Sunday, an invitation to write about eggs brought photographs of lovely Sussex Light Chickens and a small tousled headed boy with his stash of chocolate. On Bank Holiday, memories came of other Easter Mondays. And one, glorious, exuberant, personal account of the writer’s  annual family celebration: painted eggs, the woods, children showered in pink blossom, the wild throwing and batting of eggs ‘to smithereens’, then ‘All children must then have their turn with the bats until our party breaks up- the smallest children and their mothers or fathers return home while the rest of us walk on to catch up with important less frivolous news of each other. Next year it will be very special indeed ...’ The writer said she felt better for having let it all out. And we, the readers, were enriched and amused and strengthened by her words. 

This is why we meet to write together. This is why we learn to teach children about writing. Go well and go safely, dear fellow writing teachers. Keep writing. Ten minutes a day. Write with a friend. Tell yourself. Tell each other.