Bibliotherapy Training Week 6

Our last training session has come around too, too quickly!

We began by chatting about what we felt we had achieved and learned over the course of the training - 

“You’ve resuscitated my thinking”

“I’ve gained my confidence back”

“I feel so positive”

“We’re not repositories of all knowledge but we’re working collaboratively”

“It’s a two-way process”

“It’s been so enjoyable and just lovely!”

“it’s all about feeling – it makes you feel better”

“We’ve found the benefits for ourselves”

We then moved on to looking again at the poetry collection Staying Alive, choosing poems at random or because the title appealed, including:

Forty-One, Alone, No Gerbil by Sharon Olds

from An Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich

So Much Happiness by Naomi Shihab Nye

and an extract from Raymond Carver’s A Small Good Thing – read this here: http://wings.buffalo.edu/AandL/english/courses/eng201d/asmallgoodthing.html

Poems for the week on babycentre *2

So here are this weeks poems. Have a look and as last time, don’t worry about understanding every word, it’s about how the words or images make you feel. Maybe there are certain words or phrases that you’ll be drawn to or perhaps it will remind you of something else. See the comments thread for responses:

Getting Older – Elaine Feinstein

The first surprise: I like it.

Whatever happens now, some things

that used to terrify have not:

I didn’t die young, for instance. Or lose

my only love. My three children

never had to run away from anyone.

Don’t tell me this gratitude is complacent.

We all approach the edge of the same blackness

which for me is silent.

Knowing as much sharpens

my delight in January freesia,

hot coffee, winter sunlight. So we say

as we lie close on some gentle occasion:

every day won from such

darkness is a celebration.

***

Like a Beacon – Grace Nichols

In London

every now and then

I get this craving

for my mother’s food

I leave art galleries

in search of plantains

saltfish/sweet potatoes

I need this link

I need this touch

of home

swinging my bag

like a beacon

against the cold

Poems for the Day on babycentre…

I’ve started a thread for my babycentre.com December 2007 birth group to gather their responses to reading, with some lovely replies… see their responses on the comments thread

I must go down to the sea again…

Today me and Mr Pip booked our 2010 holiday and already I am tooooooo excited at the thought of being back there. This is where we’ll be staying…

http://www.lymebayholidays.co.uk/propertydetails.aspx?pageId=13&propId=B4633&Week=2009-11-27

Poems for today – Prayer and Happiness

Carol Anne Duffy, Britain’s Poet Laureate was asked if she thinks poetry ‘to some extent takes the place of religion’ in a secular society. She replied, ‘It does for me: I don’t believe in God.’

Prayer

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

“Happiness”
from ALL OF US 

So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Training Week 4

We began today by each choosing a poem from the Bloodaxe collection Staying Alive, and after discussing my choice, Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy and Suravi’s choice of And they were both right by Kapka Kassabova we moved on to putting our ideas into practice by taking it in turns to ‘diagnose’ each other.

Valsa explained how she would medically diagnose a patient – by making them comfortable, asking they what they had come to see her about and encouraging them to explain how their situation had all started; a history to their case. Making a diagnosis in terms of Bibliotherapy is similar – what does the ‘patient’ want from the 1-to-1 session or group? How do we begin a session?

I worked with Andrew and found it really interesting to find out what he enjoyed reading and why. He explained that he only read factual books and biographies and he wanted to understand their motivations, particularly people he admired such as Martin Luther King. I asked why he didn’t enjoy fiction, and he told me that he didn’t like to “not know” what the author intended us to feel or respond; he worried that he would misunderstand or get it wrong. I suggested that this was a natural concern but that actually that was what I enjoyed about fiction or poetry, that I enjoyed trying to understand a character’s motivation or an author’s theme and that sometimes I liked to not really understand – we sometimes cannot know why a real person behaves in a such a way. I gave Andrew the example of the character of Mayella Ewell in To Kill a Mockingbird and how at times I sympathised and understood her entirely, however I also could see a manipulative and vicious aspect to her character and this was human nature; could we ever really understand behaviour? Andrew said that he hadn’t seen fiction in this way and had been put off from reading prose and poetry as he often felt he didn’t understand, but that he was encouraged to experiment now. 

It was fascinating to talk with him, especially as we had such different views of fiction and I came away feeling that we had both seen fiction / non-fiction in a new way. I actually felt quite nervous – and it made me understand that it was important to not force opinions and to see the session as mutually beneficial. They should be encouraged to lead the session at times and we need to be ready to listen rather than set our own agenda, and be listening to what they need we can then use our knowledge to advise and manage future reading choices.

So, what can we offer as Bibliotherapists?

• our positivity and enthusiasm for the health benefits of reading 
• an ear to listen to responses and develop conversation
• curiosity for their reading history and what they enjoy, or don’t enjoy
• where they are in terms of health, and what they want from the sessions
• advice and guidance for further reading, perhaps challenging them with different texts

It was now my turn to be diagnosed by Valsa – and I felt quite nervous! She obviously picked this up, and gently asked me how I felt and explained what her role was, and asked me the kind of thing I liked reading. She said later that as I talked, I forgot my nervousness, and as we talked she encouraged me to explain what it was I liked, and why, moving on to suggesting a new book to me that she had enjoyed. She then suggested that she could read the opening of it to me – a brilliant way of making me feel that I wasn’t under pressure to read. It was a lovely experience and it reminded me that being gentle and encouraging was so important.

We ended today’s training by looking at Andrew’s choice of poem – Raymond Carver’s Happiness.

 

Ann Sexton’s Last Letter to God by Tracey Herd

Anne Sexton’s Last Letter to God

This is the last letter I will write
sitting at my kitchen table
with the blue coffee mug
at my elbow and the pot
roasting each bean to perfection:
faraway continents
in my cluttered suburban kitchen.
The sun is sharp through the blinds,
crisscrossing the kitchen’s
clean tiles with yellow and white.
I walk a knife-edge of light.
This is the last letter I will write.

I have been a witch, clothed in rags
and shreaking. I have borrowed
the wings of angels and given them back:
a poor fit, and yes, like Icarus
I had no sense and didn’t much like
falling back to earth. I have had lovers
by the dozen, some poets and others
and a faithful husband that I left
in the end. I have written painfully evocative
letters from Europe and many poems,
but this is the last letter I will write.

God is in your typewriter, the old priest said
and I wanted a father so badly, that for months
I believed him, transfixed by small miracles
and clutching my golden crucifix
on my knees by the empty bed. Lately

I have given a few well-received readings
in my high heels and my favourite red dress,
the posters that displayed me in defiant pose.
I was always dramatic with my husky voicem
my fingers curled around a cigarette
and the ending always upbeat.

I have just lunched with an old friend
saying goodbye and something
‘she couldn’t quite catch’.

Now I have locked the front door behind me
squinting a little as autumn spills down
from the skies and the trees. Here
is a small miracle and I am walking away.
I wrap my mother’s fur coat
tightly around me, although I have
no need of its warmth today. The sun
is a cat stroking my neck, winding itself
contently around my long slender legs.
I pause by the garage door to admire
the autum leaves in their sourball colours.

A drink is in order. A double.
A toast to old friends, to hose
on the other end of the phone and to those
who for one reason or another
have abandoned me. I pull the car door
closed and turn the key.
This, God, is my journey.
I have cut the lines
between us: no more tantrums.
No more poems. I am not
your daughter, your mother, your lover.
No more letters then, from me to you, God
and it amuses me to think of your
impotent displeasure as I settle myself
comfortably into the driver’s seat.

Tracey Herd

What a poem. I had never heard of Anne Sexton and knew nothing about Tracey Herd’s work, and as we read the poem aloud in turn my predictions and attitude towards Anne Sexton span around and changed, and I am still unsure as to how I feel…

I loved the strength of the voice, the cruel sharpness of her surity that, “This is the last letter I will write.” Perhaps the first clue that all is not well is the crystal clarity with which she describes her “suburban kitchen” and how “The sun is sharp through the blinds,” leading me to wonder if this is the first morning that she has seen clearly for a long time.

“I walk a knife-edge of light.” By now, we were all feeling a sense of uneasiness I think, that this was not a letter of thanks, or of reassurance, or forgiveness but something more sinister or painful.

Suravi pointed out that the reference to Icarus in the second verse revealed that this was an intelligent woman with some classical knowledge, and her statement, “I have written painfully evocative / letters from Europe” shows a life of travel and perhaps therefore experience. The sense of fact, of perhaps pride or even defiance in the list of lives Sexton has lived, “I have been a witch…I have borrowed the wings of angels…I have had lovers…and a faithful husband that I left / in the end” made me feel that here was a woman who had had it all but was still unsatisfied, searching and perhaps realised that she never would be satisfied with her life. This was no happy reflection on a life but a bitter, or perhaps exhausted defiance that ‘This is the last letter I will write.”

As we read we saw how the people in her life were not referred to with any warmth, but more of a desperateness and a disolussionment.  At this point I began to be reminded of Plath; her relationship with her father: “and I wanted a father so badly, that for months / I believed him,”.

Sexton seems at turns a child, abandoned and alone and then the archetypal powerful woman of fantasy: “in my high heels and my favourite red dress,” however this vision seems just that, a vision and an illusion; a role to play.

We talked about what “…saying goodbye and something / ‘she couldn’t quite catch’” could mean, and wondered whether Sexton had told her intentions – which by now had been suggested was suicide. Perhaps she did not want her friend to know; perhaps she did not want to be talked out of it. Is there a sense of indecision?

By now I was wondering – was this a poem about suicide? Or a decision to leave a life in a more metaphysical sense; to walk away and into a new way of living and being?

 “Here/ is a small miracle and I am walking away.” No. Now I was convinced that she had decided that she was ending her life in every sense – the and signifying her surity and conviction that she was choosing to leave, now lo longer feeling any of the warmth she may once have felt:“…my mother’s fur coat / tightly around me…”

The final verse again reminded me of Plath’s “Daddy, I’m through,” with Sexton’s tone of bitterness and also, somehow, acceptance: “I have cut the lines / between us: no more tantrums.” As she closes the car door and starts the ignition it is as if she finally sheds all the personas she has lived – “I am not your daughter, your mother, your daughter” and is finally alone, herself. Even now, at the end of her life, God seems to be someone to defy: “and it amuses me to think of your / impotent displeasure as I settle myself / comfortable into the driver’s seat.” Seaton is now in charge of her life and her destiny, going against the natural order of things perhaps; rejecting God and His choices for her. She states she is “comfortable” with this decision, and who are we to judge her state of mind in these final moments? Is this a positive choice, to leave her life and to feel release? 

As we discussed the poem, I tried to see an alternative, that perhaps she was not settling herself into the drivers seat to gas herself, but to literally drive away and into a better place. But I knew this was not true.

I am so glad that we knew nothing about Anne Sexton when we read this poem. It would have completely changed our reponses to it. See the Wikipedia entry here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sexton

Bibliotherapy Training Wk 3

Today we’d been asked by the Book Doctor to bring along a book to talk about – arrrrggggghhhhh! I decided on picking some out of the shelf and making Poppy choose – she chose Eva Luna and I took To Kill a Mockingbird  as a backup. Ended up talking about both and realising god, how much I’d missed this!

We started off by thinking about, “what do we talk about when we talk about books?’ and  came up with the following:

• style – narrative, thematically
• author, previous works
• things you’d expect – the cover, publisher, style, genre, author, title
• characters – lifestyles, experiences
• feelings & thoughts while reading and afterwards
• things it gave / taught you; your responses
• settings – social / historical context and the physical place
• first impressions & / vs. reflections; impressions with time and within reading

A pretty comprehensive list! This was followed by us discussing our choices – Fiona had brought along The Great Gatsby which seemed to be a great favourite with all of us! What was really odd (or perhaps not) was that none of us – Valsa, Suravi, Fiona and myself – could really explain the story; that wasn’t what we’d remembered. We remembered the characters and the feeling of wistfulness, of love lost, of loneliness and the sense of sham; the dream lost or never found. 

We then moved on to how to talk with people about books, remembering really that we were not teachers, but there to facilitate discussion. So, the most important factors seemed to be:

• listening
• starting from where they are
• understanding their point of view, not following our own agenda
• learning from them
• the context – are they in pain? 
• “How are you feeling today?”

I love our group.

We went on to discuss Suravi’s choice of The Picture of Dorian Grey, and then looked again at the poetry collection, Staying Alive. While flicking through the titles, Valsa struck upon ‘Anne Sexton’s Last Letter to God,’ by Tracey Herd – see separate post for our responses.

My curly girlie

Hello!

Mrs Pip’s world has become a better place to be lately. It hasn’t been a bad place for a good while now, but lately there seems to be much more sunshine, even on these blustery days of Winter. And so with the advent of new things I wanted to record what it is in Mrs Pip’s world that makes it a good place to be.

Some things.

• Poppy, who said “green mamma” today while passing me a wax crayon.
• Working out that the side of a cardigan that I’m knitting was going wrong (started knitting LH side and switched to RH, duh) AND fixing it without ringing my mum.
• Finding www.shelfari.com and having an excuse to go through my bookshelves and catalogue them and put them in order and choose the right covers.
• Remembering the Petyton & Byrne raspberry and coconut cupcake that Mr Pip bought me yesterday was in the fridge. And then scoffing it so fast before Poppy spotted me.

So. What do we have there…

Poppy. Knitting. Reading. Eating. Mr Pip. Pretty much covers it.