This past Friday the Mindful Writers took a meditative walk in Riverside Park and composed a spontaneous poem together as a group:

I thought it was going to be birds but it crunched
the line between soil and grass, or maybe grass and soil
walking blindly till I hit the rock
hands barely touching my shoulders

Even when playing, I hope I’m doing it right
the tree has fingers all over
that magnificent tree with a hole in the middle
extravagant tufts of grass, surprisingly bright

I want to know the story of the road less traveled
silver stones are my favorite
it is an afternoon well spent when a friend followed me blindly
dirt.

Last week the Columbia Mindful Writers met up for meditation, writing exercises, and workshopping. Everyone brought a free-writing prompt for the group to do, including:

• Write about a friendship, or the meaning of friendship, or what makes a good friendship
• Write about a significant haircut
• Write about something really big, or something really small

Here’s what came up for me for the last one:

I just read this essay in The Millions, “A Room of Everyone’s Own: The Writer as Public Fixture.” In the piece, Matt Lombardi writes:

Every time I stop into a café in New York City, I see them, ears tethered to computers, faces aglow with laptop light. When I speak of “writers,” of course, I am not discussing crafters of emails or grocery lists. I am thinking of aspiring novelists, creative non-fiction writers, and poets too. “There they are,” I think. “The cofficeurs.” And what I have always been tempted to say to them is: Go home.

Writing in public feels like a performance, but, when we’re dealing with literature, the performance is not what endures. To put it another way: the final outcome is the performance. I can’t help but assume when I see the coffice-bound writer as one who privileges persona over results.

Lombardi uses this term “coffice” to mean a coffee shop that a writer (or, I guess, he’s saying that perhaps such a person isn’t a REAL writer?) uses as an office, rather than writing at home.

I don’t often write in public, but I do live in a small studio apartment, which does sometimes get messy and hot, and I do like to switch things up and go to a cafe to write every now and then. Sometimes I just need a change of scenery, especially if I’m feeling stuck on a particular passage that I’m working on. Literally moving myself to a different location can help me shift gears. Being reminded that other people exist and other people have minds, too - that mine is not the only mind on the planet - can also help loosen my grip on my writing, take myself less seriously, and breathe some fresh air into my work.

Still, this article kicked up a bunch of knee-jerk emotional reactions when I read it:

1. Fear, that now if seen writing in public, someone will judge me as a “cofficeur” and therefore a “bad writer”
2. Shame, that because I sometimes write in public, my writing is not “real”
3. And finally, Indignant anger, that someone would presume to make such a general statement about the writing process.

And I’m thinking, Great, so now I not only have to worry about the quality of my writing, but about what my writing process says to random people about the quality of my writing? Or about who I am in general?  Yet another self judgment people now have to work on shutting up so we can get to the actual writing.

Lombardi calls writing in public “attention-seeking.” To which my response is, Ok, so what?  Why must writers be above attention-seeking behavior? Writers are people (sometimes?) I’m just not sure I get the appeal of this image of the hermit-writer in today’s society. It just isn’t that simple. People aren’t that simple. The writing process isn’t that simple.

Now, going out to write in public as an escape from being alone with one’s emotions…I have mixed feelings about that, but I don’t think I can offer a general statement about it, either. Sometimes people aren’t ready to handle strong emotions. Sometimes strong emotions are needed to get at the “truth” in a piece of writing. But whose job is it to say when and how that ought to happen?

And just like going to a synagogue or mosque or church or sangha or therapy, people need to be supported in their practice, whatever it is. If being out in a cafe where others are also writing feels supportive, I don’t see what’s wrong with that. As long as it isn’t a distraction, I don’t see how that’s bad.

I don’t think that grand pronouncements of what the writing process should look like, these blanket statement for all, are helpful. Such statements, in my personal experience and from what my writing students tell me, do not feel productive to writers trying to find their art-work-life balance.

Many of us don’t have “500 pounds per year and a room with a lock on the door.” The ideal place to write, for each and every one of us, may be different, and may change. If I were to offer one blanket statement about it, it would be to pay attention to yourself, to your writing, and to what supports your writing and your attention, and what distracts you. That’s how you find a process of your own. Which may or may not (always) include a room.

A place I write.

Another place I write.

Another place I write.

Another place I write.

Mindfulness makes us better writers, and writing makes us more mindful. We write not only to create works of literature that will touch the lives of others, but also to think of writing as a process that can help us to actively learn about our lives.

I had a great time interviewing Kimberly Bellows, one of my Twitter followers, about her day trip to the Aran Islands in August 2011. She had been traveling throughout Ireland all by herself for about a week before she got to Aran. After staying for a while in Belfast she made her way to Galway, and since all the guidebooks said Aran was where she must go, that’s where she went.

I went to Aran with a pretty blank slate. I really had no expectations other than sweaters and biking. I spent the day riding around the island stopping to take pictures every fifty feet. I couldn’t stop smiling….The only noise was when one of those crazy vans would drive past me or when one of the horse and carts would go by. There was no real noise.

For Kim, who has spent most of her life in metropolitan areas, this was a huge change, a change she genuinely enjoyed.

(Kimberly having a great time on Inishmore)

On Aran, after biking around the island all day and being blown away by how peaceful and beautiful it was, she found herself alone at the abandoned lighthouse:

I pushed my bike up to the highest point on the island and there was no one there. I’d seen tourists around but there were so many parts of the island where there was just no one else.

(The Lighthouse, Inishmore)

So I was on the top of the island just looking out. I remember thinking how abandoned it seemed. And — I think this is pretty indicative of what a rule follower I am — I kept thinking, “Am I allowed to be up here, to go into this abandoned building?” And I thought, “Well there’s no one here to stop me so I might as well look around!” I walked around the perimeter a little bit and I walked out in the grass, and I just remember feeling really alone, and…I really liked it. I liked being alone up there.

(Field near the lighthouse, Inishmore)

[At the building] there was a window, but it didn’t have any glass on it, and there was a tiny little flower growing in the windowsill. Just one little flower growing out of this huge building. There were flowers around the perimeter where the grass was but not really in the building area and I thought…that one little thing all by itself, that’s how I felt at that moment.

(All photos courtesy of Kimberly Bellows. Follow her on Twitter, @kmbellows. Currently she’s teaching English in Chile.)

What is it about the Aran Islands? I’ve been collecting interviews with islanders, visitors, tourists, and people who are just extremely passionate about the islands, and some of the responses I’ve gotten are just too beautiful not to share. If you’ve been to the Aran Islands and have an opinion, an anecdote, or just feel inspired, e-mail me. I would love to know your story.

Last Friday I gave my students a writing prompt at the beginning of class. The prompt was to take a few minutes to free-write your response to the phrase “That’s Good.” (Free-writing is writing without judgment, without critiquing, just writing down whatever comes up.)

Here’s some of mine. I think it’s funny that I sort of played out the conclusion I came to in the end. The things that come up in freewriting sometimes…

**Comment and add some! The first things that come to your mind!

“That’s Good”

Yuck. 

Yuck is the opposite of good. Right?

I’m worrying everyone will think this exercise is yuck.

Stop worrying and just try doing it.

Good. Goodness gracious.

This room is good. My hair (can be) good. My scarf is good. 

This morning was good. This group is good. My tea is good. It’s herbal I think.

My pen is good. My handwriting makes me feel good.

That’s good. “It’s nice to see you.”

Free books are good.

My pillow is good.

My neighbor who I don’t know is good.

My dad is good.

Thinking is good.

Not thinking is good.

Writing is good.

Thinking about writing is good but not as good as writing.