The Melting

There are moments, for some, entire lifetimes for others, which create the process of darkness and cold permeating their otherwise fruitful existence. This unwanted, yet seemingly unavoidable presence, takes hold of individuals with various strengths, and if given the opportunity will snowball through our lives to perpetuate itself. This ice of dissatisfaction and misery crystallizes on top of itself, forming a jagged tree of cold within us. A frozen tumbleweed of the soul, if you will.

These weeds are dissolved or melted by the love felt from kind words, or the beauty we find in the true nature of things, or a beauty previously unseen, newly found within ourselves, our loved ones, or in the cosmos. The warmth of such experiences, when given the passage to, weaves the way into our flesh and our emotions, engulfing the pain of that jagged ice tree...and melting it so that rather than leaving frozen roots to grow back, there is nourishment to foster new growth and understanding.

I suppose the point being made is that we would all do well to remember a couple of key ideas here. Firstly, to allow the real warmth in life to infuse itself into our existence. Secondly, to remember that we are always capable of being the means by which another creature's frozen tumbleweed of the soul is melted. Lastly, and this is mostly for me, I hope these words are a part of your warmth today....

Behind a photo

My grandmother was a beautiful woman when she was young, I've seen pictures to prove it. There is a photograph of her and her sister standing in front of an old station wagon. It was summer and they were both wearing striped crop tops and high waist shorts. The outfits looked worn, faded and homemade; the once sturdy fabric softened from constant wearing and washing. They looked carefree, happy, and young. However, what is not in the picture is more interesting as is usually the case with most photographs. Both my grandmother and great aunt were on their second or third marriage by the time this picture was taken and a kid each. None of this is reflected in the photo, it fails to show that although my grandmother was beautiful and vivacious, she was broken, poor, and desperate.

A photo of her before she died hid less than the original but you could still never tell from her worn face all the pain she experienced. A lifetime of abuse, vices, children, and men had slowly yet completely siphoned the fight she had once contained. Her hair once healthy, replaced with a straw-like textured, a boxed red color never mistaken for natural and barely hiding the gray. Her teeth long ago re-installed with cheap dentures, compliments of a staircase and long dead husband. A husband (one of ten), who met his demise at the end his own shotgun held by that woman in the photograph.

This feels incomplete, I know, but also it feels correct as most of my feelings toward a woman I couldn't understand and didn't know are incomplete. I am and remain haunted by the history that she hid behind her photos. All I have is what she left: a legacy of violence, failed marriages and half truths.

On Flimsy Inspiration, or The Dripping Sieve

There are times I write whole essays in my head in the middle of the day, as I bike across town, during lunch hour at work, or while washing dishes. I compose intricate symphonies of poetically-structured sentences, elaborate ideas, profundities. I am a genius.

But here’s the thing: I never write a single word down. My genius lasts for the five or forty minutes it takes to compose these thoughts in the confines of my brain, and then the brilliance is flattened like a squirrel with the most unfortunate timing.

I blame the professor who told me once that if it’s not memorable enough to stick in my brain long enough to eventually make it to paper, it’s probably not interesting enough to write about. That may not have been exactly what he said, but that’s the sentiment that stuck with me, and so I stubbornly adhere to this advice that was probably not meant for people like me, people with memories like sieves. When the inspiration is flush it fills to the brim. And it filters out twice as quickly.

In truth, of course, the fault is my own. In the moment of pure revelation—listen closely now, and get out your pen—just write it down. Even if you would have remembered it anyway, impress it into being, give it a jump start on survival. That’s what I’m telling myself this month. My time is spare. My inspiration is flimsy. I cannot afford to rely on my memory, to push it to the end of the day, to risk an empty sieve when I need a full coffer. I’m gonna keep that notebook handy.

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Jennifer Yeatts is Senior Editor of Dunes Review and a Michigan native. She completed an MFA in poetry at the University of Idaho while also serving on the editorial board for Fugue, where she met and worked with many fine people including the fabulous Chelsia Rice, instigator of this blog. Jennifer writes, edits, makes coffee, and teaches other people how to make coffee at Higher Grounds Trading Co., an organic and fair trade coffee company in Traverse City, Michigan. Her poems have appeared in a few places here and there, including Linebreak and Boxcar Poetry Review.

Leah

My family moved when I was in fourth grade.  We didn't move that far. Just to the next town but it was far enough that I lost all my friends. Except one, Arlisse. We would still call each other and sometimes my mom would drive me over to see her or she would come to visit me. It was like that for the next three years.  Not all the time or a lot but we were always friends. She was my one connection to the place where I lived when I was little.

Arlisse didn't have a lot of friends. Maybe that is why she made such an effort to stay in touch with me.  I liked Arlisse a lot. She was quiet and sometimes she seemed kind of sad but she was really nice.  We talked about a lot of things.

In October of eighth grade, my mom and dad came to my school in the middle of the morning and I was called out of class.  They took me home but didn't tell me why. They didn't say anything on the ride from school and I didn't ask them any questions because I knew something bad had happened.  When we got home, they took me out on the patio in the back yard.  Chicago has beautiful weather in October so it was really nice to sit out there.

My father was the one to tell me.  Arlisse had been murdered.  She was killed with a knife.

A boy at school told me that Arlisse's father was the one who killed her. He told me that the next day when I went back to school. Everybody on Twitter said that was true. About a year later, a court said it was true.

Sometime during the trial, I learned that her father had been sexually abusing her. Arlisse never told me that.

John Paulett is the author of four books, including Lost Chicago, Forgotten Chicago, and Printers Row. John holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, an MA in Theology from Felician College, and a BS in Linguistics from Georgetown University. He teaches English, Theology, and Film in Chicago.

The Plastic Bag Hoarder of Los Angeles

I first met the Plastic Bag Hoarder on Mother's Day, 2014. She told me of the new law implemented throughout L.A. County that banned the sale and use of plastic bags, lamenting that now, she would need to shop outside the city limits to fulfill her bag quota.

"One day, you too will make enough money to miss those plastic bags," the hoarder replied to my delight at the banning of such a wasteful product.

The Plastic Bag Hoarder of Los Angeles then wished me a Happy Mother's Day, and thanked me for my generous gift--because you know, the hoarder is my mother.

Streets

I want to tell you what happened on our street the year Nelson Mandela was released from prison. I didn't understand everything about who he was but I thought anyone standing up for his principles against hateful people and then suffering twenty-seven years for it had to be a hero. One evening, I was strolling up and down our street with my then best friend; both of us roughly nine years old, brown hair down to our shoulders, perhaps complaining about school or whispering about our respective crushes. A boy, a few years older than us was riding his bicycle with his friends. He lived on a different street but we knew him by face. As if on a dare, he began riding his cycle as close to us as possible, smiling proudly the whole time, like he was some brave Hindi film hero, teasing girls and getting away with it. I didn't want him to feel that good when all he was doing was being a nuisance. So I called out to him, telling him to mind his own business. His friends laughed, his face reddened, and he rode away, the tinkle of his cycle bell fading quickly in the distance. But a woman on our street, someone’s mother, heard the story the next day, and told me, good little girls should never be aggressive.

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Sayantani Dasgupta’s hometown is the wonderfully chaotic Delhi, India. She teaches at the University of Idaho. Her writing has appeared in Gulf Stream, SN Review, Sugar Mule and other journals. Her essay On Seeking Answers received a 2010 Pushcart Prize Special Mention and the essay Oscillation was the first runner up for Phoebe magazine’s 2014 Creative Nonfiction Contest. She is also the nonfiction editor of Crab Creek Review. 

For Roslyn

Last Friday, one of my professors from college passed away. As I write this, I’m not even sure what the cause of death is, and maybe that’s the point. Not how she died, but how she lived. She had a profound effect on me.  A week ago I may have not committed to this thirty day writing challenge, but with Rosyln’s passing, I am acutely aware that time is a ’wasting and I can just see the smile on her face as I begin this first essay.  Her commitment to love as an action and a loving community is what inspired me to jump in head first with this challenge.  Maybe you don’t see a connection between a loving community and a writing challenge, but you will.

Roslyn taught many classes, but one of the two that I took was a class all based around the writing of bell hooks. Wait, stop! I hear you grammar folks shouting at me now. However, I didn’t capitalize her name for a reason. Born Gloria Jean Watkins, she began to write under the name of bell hooks. This was her grandmother’s name, and so she chose to distinguish the two of them by leaving her version in all lower case. As she put it, she put the name in lowercase letters "to distinguish [herself from] her grandmother". She says that while it may be unconventional, it was meant to focus the attention on her work rather than who she is, substance of material over the writer herself. She is a feminist, writer, cultural critic, teacher and much more. And her belief in love as an action and not just a passive feeling is what Roslyn based her class around.

You see, Roslyn believed deeply in this definition of love and the power and change that can come from a truly beloved community. Maybe it sounds too hippy dippy for you, but for me, it resonated deeply within my soul. We discussed love on every level; family, friends and romantic love. We discussed how our society teaches men and boys to be so tough that they don’t know how to love themselves or anyone else in a truly connected way. We read beautiful books, did the horrid group presentation thing, and learned that colluding with popular culture can be OK, but awareness and critical analysis are needed, we cannot just be a passive observer. I was overjoyed to learn that Roslyn loved to watch Alyssa Milano kick ass in Charmed just as much as I did, but acknowledged that while strong female lead characters in the media are an excellent thing, they use violence every week to solve their problems. Love as an action doesn’t look to violence as an answer, ever.

Roslyn also believed in the power of meditation to transform our lives and our souls. There was a time a few years back when I was going through a divorce and feeling very lost in the world. I felt alone and was scared to face the world alone after so many years in a relationship. One night in particular, I was feeling especially hopeless when Roslyn and another friend, Marlene, showed up at my house. They were not going to leave until I was calm and feeling like I could face another day. I was crazed that night, frantic with anxiety and unable to get a handle on my emotions. These two amazing women, who had insanely busy lives, came to my house and helped me focus on my breathing and talked me down. They wanted me to see that I was not alone. That this is what beloved community was about. Times of need, people pulling together and helping one another, not for glory or fame, but because love as an action commands it.

Love as action is demanding. You cannot sit back on your laurels and expect love to magically pour itself on to you. You have to work at it, have compassion and empathy, be fearless and remember that we are all humans at our core who just want to be loved and validated. Love as an action is a conscious choice to love rather than be ambivalent, even when it’s not easy.

So what does bell hooks, Roslyn my professor, all this talk about love as an action and writing this essay have to do with one another? I learned this definition of love from bell hooks, through Roslyn. This definition requires me to not sit idly by when a challenge is presented. A challenge that brings people together through the written word, encourages me to do something I love to do any way, and provides me with an opportunity to honor Roslyn. Love as an action insists that I write these words, and I shall heed the call.

For Roslyn

May the love you showed the world be a mere glimmer of the love you feel wherever you are now my dear friend.