Strong Companions

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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. She is the author of Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood.


I have this week embarked upon the Shaping of my next book.

I know, I know: I said I had embarked, and then abandoned ship, a couple of months ago, and that’s entirely true. This is a different book, though! This book has been in progress longer, in fact. It’s just slow going, in the best sense. Slow in the sense of sweet, relaxing. The sense of having plenty of time, and the sense of not being concerned in the least about hours and days as numbered by the clock.

I’m studying Old English (also slowly), mainly because I want to read the poetry. There’s a line that haunts me — a simple line, a statement of right-being that is not profound (although I’d argue in another sense it absolutely is.) That line is: Éa, of dune sceal, flodgræg féran.*

And that’s your only clue what the book is about.

In fact I’ve got four books in the hopper right now, and vague ideas about another two. One is the abandoned manuscript from this summer, which I suspect I may scrap for parts, but who knows? It’s a cohesive whole, and it’s persuasive — it’s just not ready to spin up the chrysalis yet. One is the present volume I’m being needlessly mysterious about, one is fiction (who even am I?), one is not-poetry, and the others are probably sections of some yet-to-be-imagined larger work. 

Will any of these make it to book form? I care deeply about the answer to this, but I’m learning I’m just not going to know it. Maybe for years. 

“Things take the time they take.” I’m quoting Mary Oliver again; you are not surprised. The next line of that poem is “Don’t worry.”** And I do try to take that advice. There is only a certain amount of control I have, and surprisingly little of it pertains to when a particular piece of art is finished, or what its finished and public form is going to look like.

That’s not a bad thing. That’s not a good thing? I think it depends on factors outside of an artist’s control. For me, and for Tell the Turning, it has been a good thing. I had a lot of love and a lot of work and I lot of hope to give that book, but I couldn’t have imagined (let alone crafted) the way the book actually, physically, turned out. It took collaboration to imagine that. Collective imagination. 

It’s also — now that the book is arriving in homes and shops, and is subject to continued co-creation by its readership — going to keep taking a species of trust in the process. The part of the process, in this case, that I have nothing to do with. 

This is easy to grasp intellectually. It’s harder to know in my body: in my restless, wrestling brain; and in my fingers, eager to shape their wanderings to pen and keyboard. There is The Gathering, there is The Shaping, there is The Singing, there is The Resting, and there is…I don’t know what to call this phase yet. I just got here.  

So I’ll go back, instead — to a concept I brushed past a moment ago, but it left some burrs on my sleeve. “The process.”

Present Book — you know what, I’m just going to call it Éa. (It’s not called Éa.) Éa has been conversing with me irregularly since before Tell the Turning. She’s — she hasn’t got a gender, but “it” is wrong, so let’s go with “she” for now. She is reserved. She needs to be sure I’ll get her right. And she’s a strong companion; I’m glad to walk beside her as long as it takes. I’m glad indeed to be giving my full attention to her Shaping. And I’m also… afraid? to take eyes off Tell the Turning.

I know the shape of this fear. It has nothing to do with Tell the Turning specifically. It has to do with the fact that, because I have been through the process with Tell the Turning, I supposedly know what I’m doing now in writing a book. And if I know what I’m doing, I have a responsibility I didn’t have before, when I was flying by the seat of my pants. If I know how to make a book now, that means that in making Éa, I could end up making her wrong.

I could definitely let this paralyze me. I have a history of doing so. 

I’ve written before that I’ve not been good at studying. As a child, I didn’t learn how to learn; I expected to be good at whatever I tried. And when I wasn’t, the (perceived) scrutiny involved in growing awkwardly beyond my present mastery of a given subject or skill felt impossible to bear — so, plenty of times, I quit. And that’s ultimately the shape of my worry with Éa: not just what if I get her wrong, but what happens after that: what if trying again is just too hard, what if I quit? 

So my job right now is to learn to be a strong companion myself. One thing I think this means is trusting the process.

“The process” is specific, and the process is also Mysterious. I know that the best thing about making art is making art, so the specifics are: Invite poems. Compose. Light my special Éa candle, pick a rock to help me remember where this collection comes from, and revise. Assemble a manuscript. Print it out. Reassemble it. Line-edit. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Then give it to my publisher, and revise, reassemble, and edit all over again. Add unknown amounts of time between steps.

I know these steps now. I love them, which is one reason I can trust them. And they steady me, which is another. I can find them any time, and no matter what they produce — in the moment or the day or the week — the process of attending them will hold me up. They are right work. 

This is where the Mystery comes in: over time — the-time-that-is-right, kairos, not the-time-on-my-calendar-and-clocks — this right work, this process, will teach me how to unfold the work of art, the product.

This is the part where “trust” becomes also “faith.”

Faith is not about knowing what will happen. It’s precisely the opposite: the not-knowing is the reason to trust. 

So “knowing what I’m doing” means not that I know how things ought to turn out. It means that I know how to do the daily work, and how to trust that daily work to catalyze creation.

I don’t doubt that I’ll learn this over and again. I don’t doubt that I’ll stumble. Trust is harder than it sounds. (And it sounds hard.) Fear sounds awful, but it can be comforting: a reason not to do the work, a reason to quit. 

Éa, and Tell the Turning, are better reasons — to keep going. They are strong companions, and I want to be one too. 

So I have work to do. 

*Those commas are not original to the text. I put them in to get around a caesura that would look like a typo because I’m only quoting one line, and to indicate where I prefer to punctuate the sentence when I’m speaking it. 

**The poem this comes from is also called Don’t Worry. It’s short, and I recite it pretty often. It’s a beautifully-decorated little stop sign for the anxiety-prone brain. 

Renewal From the Deep

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Tara K. Shepersky is the author of Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood, coming this autumn (and available to order right now!) from Bored Wolves.

A friend reminded me recently of some lines of poetry:

...While the tide pursues
its known slow-turning
seas and season dredging up
renewal from the deep...

I remember exactly where I was when I composed those lines, in 2017 or 2018. I remember the low tide inside me as the winter sun dropped and faded in a clear-green sky. 

It was my standard sort of low tide: compounded of a little melancholy, my body’s natural late-afternoon ebb, and the building tension of a human spirit that had recently discovered a sense of existential terror, made visible on a national and a planetary scale. 

So I wrote those lines from hope. From trust in the turning tides and seasons I have lovingly observed my whole life — which continue to cycle and renew, even as their forms are changing. 

Today I heard those lines as affirmation. 

I haven’t felt much for months. (If you aren’t counting despair and helplessness, and anger, when I can reach that far.) I’ve been mired, unfocused, disorganized in a way that doesn’t respond to productivity tools. I’ve been confused and forgetful, uninterested in activities I supposedly love, and exhausted in a way that sleep could not repair. I’m been coming to understand why people say that depression is an illness. It feels like one. I found this great metaphor: the weird energy-sucking flu.

I can see it’s taking me a while to work up to this, even in print. What if I’ve misread the signs? What if I jinx it? My brain also tends toward anxiety, which is superstitious.

Mary Oliver reminded us: “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” So here it goes: my depression, at last, is lifting. The tide, as it always does, is slowly turning. From depths uneasy to fathom, renewal is welling up. 

Of course I want to know why. I want to learn the formula, so I can apply it to myself, or someone else, in the unknowable future. I want to distill a series of practical, numbered lessons from this experience. I want them right now. 

Lesson number one: nope. Better lean in to that Mystery — capital M — because it’s one of life’s few constants. And it’s not bent on handing out answers. Responses, yes: Mystery speaks all the time. But answers? Doors you can label and lock and walk away from? Not in my experience.

So I’m asking, and I’m listening, and I do hear a response: committment. Or maybe faith. Or maybe: movement. 

The shift feels sudden. A week and a half ago, I was crying at a frequency and volume I literally could not control. I did not want to die, but I had no phrase as strong as that to express how I did feel. This happened for 24 hours, with a brief, exhausted plummet into sleep somewhere in the middle. I do not recommend the experience. 

And also: I’m beginning to suspect it of functioning as what a friend who does energy work refers to as “the healing crisis.” If you look that up on the internet, you’re going to get a lot of discussion about homeopathy and detoxing, both which I regard with mild skepticism. But I accept the metaphor. There’s a whole lot of new and energetic movement in my life lately. I started it intentionally, some weeks before the Abysmal 24. Quite quickly after this crisis, I am feeling enormously more myself.

What is this intentional movement? I thought what I needed was to move out of my house. And in a longer-term sense, to break up with my landscape. I suspect I do still need those things. But they’re not available to me right now. 

So I traveled. This was also not available to me before. But I got my vaccines and I packed my masks, and in the brief window before the delta variant slammed us backwards, I took myself on a pair of roadtrips, bracketing a two-week sojourn in my southern California home-landscape. 

I walked on the beach. I drove a lot of backroads. I sat outside and sipped the ocean breeze. I spent time with very dear humans.

At the same time, I started a course — the kind contained in a book, that you do by yourself — designed to “unblock” my creativity. 

I did not feel blocked; I was writing. And I did not trust this course: too many people rave about it, in terms too glowing to uncritically accept. It has an undeniably airy-fairy feel. But something had to give. The famous book was sitting in my favorite Little Free Library one morning. I picked it up, read the introduction, rolled my eyes, let it lie for a week. Packed it on my journey south, and started doing the exercises. 

An astonished line about floodgates probably goes here. My left eyebrow is still permanently raised — and I’m still working on the course — so I’ll hold off on the rave reviews. But I can say this: energy is moving. 

For months I have not made regular time to journal, wander in solitude, or pursue most of the other non-art things from which I and the great Mystery weave my creative being. Since I committed wholly to these two big journeys, however — the inner, the outer — I have felt a responsive whoosh, like the very wind. It is returning something essential to me. I am returning something essential to me. Though I could not do it alone.

I said this shift felt sudden. It is not just the journeys. Those have provided the push, but first I needed to find enough faith to undertake them. 

In the way of much stochastic change, the timing and nature of this one could not be predicted, but that it would occur absolutely could be. It was nutured and encouraged over time, and it’s this encouragement, these tiny movements faithfully pursued, that I think can be identified, and seen to predict the dramatic, tangible transformation.

What kind of encouragement? Small stuff. Baseline stuff. Stuff that sounds easy but turns out to be incredibly hard to practice with consistency. Sleeping enough, exercising daily, seeing a kind and helpful therapist. Eating to nourish, not to restrict or reward. Scheduling dependable quality time with your dearest ones. Writing a little on the regular, even when it isn’t going anywhere. Giving yourself a whole lot of breaks. 

In fact, this stuff was easy for me (well, except the eating part), but then I got depressed, and it was hard, and it felt stupid to keep doing it so doggedly for months, when it exhausted me even to think about, and it wasn’t helping. 

But it was helping. I kept the faith by action when I could not keep the feeling. So I was there for me when something deep said: create movement. And I was there for me when that movement began to work at levels both deep and superficial. 

Please don’t take this as an instruction manual. I am not a therapist. I am not even an expert on having depression. The kind of depression I had was the situational sort, which is distinct from the persistent demon. I am not peddling a cure. 

But I do think there is some healing to be sought in the sorts of things a creative practice teaches. 

Knowing (or finding out) how to nourish youself. 

Showing up for those things every day, whether the output is brilliant or not. 

Checking in with the work and with yourself. 

Knowing when it’s time to push. 

Following your intuition, even when it’s pointing you out into the wild ocean.

Holding on for the ride, and trusting you and the ocean are both doing the best you can. Paying attention to the deeps that are moving — slowly, invisibly, unstoppably. Knowing they are bringing you some kind of renewal.

Backroads

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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood.

I heard a poem today, and I fell in love. It’s called Things to Think, by Robert Bly. I must get it by heart on my next walk. It resonated so strongly with my ruminations shortly before I heard it, on a mini-roadtrip undertaken in the day’s middle hours. 

I had met a friend for lunch, on the other side of a spine of low, arid mountains near the sea. I got there by car in the conventional way: there’s a many-laned freeway that connects coastal plain to valley in about five minutes (when the traffic’s light). I returned — having planned this with happy anticipation — via a series of one-lane backroads. A question I was considering as I did this: why do I go out of my way, whenever I can, to travel on backroads?

It isn’t just aesthetic, though there’s that in it too. Today is not an example. This is the sere season in Southern California; my route is mainly brown, dry, blasted. People talk about winter as the time when the bones of the land show through, but here that’s summer, which lasts until the rains come. Sometimes that’s January — or the January after that.

So why else? I answered as if conversing with myself: They get me off the freeway. They make me read the map. Or get off the map, and navigate for myself. 

And that’s it, literally and metaphorically. In a material act that you do with your hands, feet, and senses, driving a backroad requires you to re-examine your known ways of getting places. 

They take longer, backroads. You have to brake, coast, pass, get passed, take very sharp curves quite slowly. If there’s construction or an accident, you’re far from surface streets, so you just have to wait. Cruise control doesn’t work for long, and there’s little zoning out. 

The act of backroads-driving can be — it was for me today — an incantation, a declaration of intent to seek a new path. Or an old path perhaps, but one with wisdom you haven’t yet encountered. Or wisdom you’ve forgotten.  

There’s a lot of time on backroads journeys for observation. It is not, for example, only brown and blasted out here; I’m noticing the sea-born haze that hangs in the air (all day), and the way every color is hazy too: the sky a heathered bluish taupe; the chapparal and citrus trees a muted olive green. Even the ocean is a dusty sort of turquoise, like someone dug it out of the mountain five minutes ago, and left it lying. 

Noticing, I realize: this is what I want.

I mean that I want this road specifically, and many like it, today and tomorrow and the days after that.

And I mean, in the larger and metaphoric sense, that I want to get off the freeway. I want to find new and slower ways through my life. 

My life has half-a-dozen standard lanes, all blazing along well over the speed limit. The one that concerns us here is my creative practice: a reasonably well-established, regular and crucial part of my everyday routines. A well-maintained fast-track to who I want to be.

The inertia of this lane is strong. I suspect this is because it is successful, by the definition I previously set for success: I have written a book of poems, which is currently being edited and illustrated and produced, in an intensely beautiful and gratifyingly official way, by a small team of wonderful human beings. I love this book, and I love the making of it, every stage.

Staying in this lane creatively seems natural, feels good. It worked, didn’t it? It’s telling me exactly how to do what I most want to do, which is make the next book.

I recently finished assembling 100+ poems into a manuscript draft of the next book. Though there is much (much) work left to be done, I have already revised and polished most of them significantly. And I have made a first attempt at structure. I have printed out a thing that looks like a book-in-the-making, and now I have a satisfying stack of physical paper that has let me remove from the internet, and engage entirely with hand, pen, lips, tongue, breath, body, word, rhythm, and form.

And it isn’t working. 

Back from the backroads and crunching some day-job data, I have stumbled upon — in that lovely serendipitous way that feels like a sort of benign divine intervention — the exact interview I needed to hear. Martin Shaw, a storyteller and mythologist, interviewed Mark Rylance, a stage and screen actor. Rylance talked about creative integrity from one performance to another, employing a metaphor of “reheating the meal.” When you do something well, and you can feel you have done, and people come up to you and tell you how good it was, you think: Great! I will do that again. And then you do it again, and it’s stilted and it doesn’t work. 

So I have some words now for my realization: I don’t want to reheat the meal. My next book (next project) cannot be Tell-the-Turning-with-different-themes. 

What is it then? I don’t know! Which is why I’ve decided to take a break from Shaping it. 

Rylance says in the interview: “focus on your intention,” rather than “the memory of the form.” I don’t know what my intention is, even, for the next project. So I’m waiting. 

“Waiting” sounds passive, which makes me uneasy. But in fact this particular waiting isn’t passive. It’s perfectly active — it’s just not art.  

A poet — any artist — needs to be consistently exploring the subjects, themes, and patterns that give them life, that root their art in the necessary and true. By “explore,” I do not mean “produce art about.” I mean physically engage with a thing itself, not analyze or make accessible, or otherwise publicly represent that thing or the experience of it. 

This hands-on, all-in exploration is a pre-requisite for art. But it is not art and it does not necessarily lead to art, either. If it has a goal outside itself, that goal does not serve our egos or advancement.

In the exhaustion of pandemic and depression, I have been pushing hard to produce art. And neglecting, in that process, these explorations. 

For example, I have not been walking. Granted, it’s too hot for me in summer to walk for hours. But that seasonal loss ought to be attended, and mitigated. I’ve barely noticed.

I have also let my journal go. Where I used to channel enormous flows of imagery, effort, leisure, and love into my personal writing — which I do for play, and which never has an audience —  instead I’ve been pouring all of that into poems for publication. I can do both, of course. But I can tell (now that I’m attending) that the two are out of balance. My journals from the period of writing Tell the Turning are full and vibrant. My journal as I’ve Gathered and begun to Shape the next book? Nearly empty. 

And I have largely forgone my habit of taking the literal backroads. 

In consequence of all this neglect, I have forgotten how, as Bly’s poem has it, to “think in ways you’ve never thought before.” I’ve remained on the freeway, in my creative lane.

Having noticed all of this, I have already begun to repair it. 

What sort of art will come, eventually, to fill the expectant, active space I’m leaving as I press pause on the next book, and instead resume exploring? 

Tell the Turning was invited into being with a handwritten letter. What will make the next invitation?

Faith is not some kind of literal belief. Faith is trusting. Trusting, in this case, my own self, to do what my soul and my body need to survive — and if possible, eventually, to thrive. Trusting the creative process I love, that I’m still discovering. 

And perhaps there is a new phase to the process of making a given creative work. I’ve identified The Gathering, The Shaping, and The Singing. Is this The Resting?

What would The Resting consist of, so I can look out for and encourage it when it’s needed? 

Get off the freeway. Take the backroads. Fall in love with a poem or two — or a person, perhaps, or a season. Wait. Watch. Do the non-art things that make you you

A response — like a storm, or the fog rolling in, or the sun cracking through — is surely coming, on a future shift in the wind. 

I pay attention to winds. I’ll be able to smell it. 

The Quest for Rest, and the Sympathetic Magic of Studying

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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, poet, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning.

This is the latest installment in Tara’s monthly column about the creative practice.

If you connect with Tara’s work, consider supporting her Patreon. You can also write her a letter via The PenPalProject. 

When my husband came home from work the other day, I didn’t hear our startlingly loud garage door banging closed. I was wading with all my faculties through an Old English text, and I didn’t hear anything until his voice said, tentatively, “Baby?” — at which point I leapt from my chair, shouting surprise, to find he’d materialized in the doorway.

This is a pretty common theme, right? Human brains work like this: we get absorbed in a thing; we forget our surroundings; we can, in this state, become easily startled by the world’s intrusions. Here’s the thing, though: I am always startled by the world’s intrusions, even as I’m also always bracing for them. It’s pretty rare for me to be so focused that I’m not braced for interruption, not attuned to each shift in my environment.

Some of this is just how I’m made: intense and sometimes painful sensitivity to (especially) sound, movement, temperature, scent, and my own body-state are nothing new for me. But for the rest of it… I wasn’t always like this. 

As a child, I had hours of focus in me: for reading a book, observing the life of a river, completing homework, playing elaborate games of make-believe. I’ve watched, for some years now, my adult capacity for focus shrinking with the malignant growth of the attention economy, but (by dint of conscious effort) I retained, until recently, the ability to summon it at need. 

What’s changed? Who knows; the possibilities are many, and compounding. A year-and-a-half (and counting) of living in a house where my sensitivities feel always under attack. A significant diminishment of my accustomed solitude. A tendency to anxiety-response. A year-and-a-half of pandemic trauma, experienced alongside the entire world. The depression that’s finally descended from all of the above. 

The cause is important, certainly, but surviving is more so. Thriving, in whatever ways I can, but most crucially: healing. Which is less an event than an an ongoing process. 

For several months, I’ve been thinking a lot about rest: what it even is, how to make space for it. One of the habits I’ve observed that creates rest is focus. Actual rest is so much more likely to be available when my attention isn’t trying to split itself two or ten or twenty ways. 

From this understanding, I’ve departed on a quest — gently, slowly, which is difficult — to regain my dangerously fragmented attention. 

My creative practice, of course, is a place to start with this. You’re familiar with most of that advice. Turn off the internet, choose an time and stick to it, find a place by yourself, set a timer, et cetera. All of that is useful. 

My daily internet habits are another good starting point. Following Cal Newport’s research and some of his advice (while holding at bay his obsession with optimization), I’ve limited my social media, email, and mobile phone engagement to a couple of times a day, and I’m shifting toward conversation (on a phone, on a porch, by letter) instead of more constant and shallow connection (by text, on Twitter or Instagram, et cetera). This is — I was surprised — not easy, and I have to begin again pretty often. But, gradually, it’s helping.

Here’s another thing that helps, while also sideways-benefiting my creative practice: learning. I mean the intentional, semi-formal kind. I mean studying. 

I’m not actually any good at studying. In school, I was the kid our educational system tends to serve best: I’m good at memorizing, I like formal learning, I’m white and I grew up middle class. Also, I had a deeply loving home, where both human and material elements supported the conditions I need to thrive. In college, I re-created those conditions suprisingly well. (I also I returned to my parents’ calm home for regular recharging.) 

College is where I came to understand — mainly by watching my fellow scholarship recipients — that I had no idea how to study. I read the material, I asked questions, and I paid attention in class. I’m naturally good at consuming, making connections between, and re-purposing information — so long as I’m interested in that information, and have some existing facility. Subjects that don’t fit that description (statistics, for example, or chemistry) I had no idea how to learn. Where I was allowed to do so, I avoided them. Subjects I was good at, but required regular and rigorous attention to excel in (Latin comes to mind) I took as far as they were easy for me, and then I dropped them.

If I didn’t know how to do something already — including, apparently, studying — trying and failing embarrassed and confused me. I had no idea how crucial short-term failure is to long-term success. I graduated summa cum laude, largely because distinction was more important to me than challenge. And challenge, at the edge of your existing abilities, is where the learning happens. 

Cut back to me, at 37, deciding to study Old English. Also SQL.

Why these two subjects particularly? Different reasons. Old English I am not unfamiliar with, although certainly I don’t read it. It interests me; it can already hold at least some of my attention. I speak and read much better Spanish, so if I’m going to study a language, why not that? I suspect, unflatteringly, it’s because no one is going to ask me to actually speak in Old English, to understand and to be understood. Spanish, on the other hand, is a living language. In other words, I’m still embarrassed. 

SQL is something everyone I work with knows, and uses on a regular basis. I am fortunate to work for a company that allocates time for training, and money to pay for it. I decided on SQL because it’s useful to my data-based job. And because the basics are easy to grasp: they’re very much English, just in streamlined programming form. Building on them follows logically, without too much need for synchronous instruction.

Both of these subjects allow me to build a new structure on skills and predispositions I already have. I’m not starting from nothing. Small successes — very motivating — are easy to achieve. But I’m also not coasting on what I know already; I’m actually learning.

Nor do I have a goal of official achievement. I have tended in the past to conflate “learning,” particularly “learning a language,” with realized accomplishment — in the case of language, speaking or reading fluently. I have tended to get discouraged when I don’t master the subject with relative ease and dispatch. 

Understanding that learning is a process, and specifically not an achievement, has helped me to embrace study as an end in itself. As play. 

This in turn has motivated me to keep studying: I learn a small skill or a piece of knowledge, I apply it to a text or a database, I get a result. If it’s wrong, I go digging, find what I missed, and try again. I succeed in translating a line, or retrieving the information I requested. I clap my hands excitedly and beam at the empty room. I’m having fun. 

And in all of this, I am absorbed. My focused attention, brain and body, is required for learning at the edge of my ability. For the duration of a study session, time, stress, and responsibilities all cease to exist. For the duration of a study session, I am working — and also, perhaps, I am resting.

Studying is also making me a better poet. Or at least — since, what does “better” mean, regarding poems? — I can say objectively that it is helping me focus more when I sit to revise. 

I think it’s also allowing me to access new ideas. Studying something not related to art takes my mind off that art (and off my stressors), long enough for my mind to rest and process. It’s maybe like a nap for the creative brain. (Actual sleep is also critical, perhaps including actual naps.) 

On the other side of that break, my mind is fresher, more interested, more focused. It’s not suddenly raring to write poem in Old English, or about databases or in the form of a query. But new pathways are opening in my poetry because I’m intentionally opening new pathways in my learning. You could call it sympathetic magic. 

Like all magic, it’s specific, it compounds, and it’s work. And like all magic, it’s powerful enough to unlock important doors. Like, for example — and probably I should add “perhaps;” I’m not so far on my quest yet — rest.

Moving Water

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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood, to be published this autumn by Bored Wolves.

This is the latest installment in Tara’s monthly column about the creative practice.

If you connect with Tara’s work, consider supporting her Patreon. You can also write her a letter via The PenPalProject. 

Martin Shaw gave an interview* last winter, from deep in the UK’s first lockdown, in the who-knows-anything time before Covid vaccines. Someone in the virtual audience asked about trauma: what do you do with it? “Get to moving water,” he said. “And sit there. And sit there. And sit there.”

On the banks of a creek who wishes to remain anonymous, I am sitting. It is mid-day, it is not cold, and my creekbank “belongs” to a U.S. State Park. Which is to say that it would be crowded — as it is, at its nearby confluence with a medium-sized river — but I have rolled my pants and taken my chances with slippery rapids and teetering log jams. Here upstream I am not alone, but neither are there any other humans in sound or sight. 

I have been here a while: watching dragonflies and hummingbirds, and columbine nodding above an undercut bank; reading a letter from a friend; listening to the breeze changing its mind from downstream to up. 

I find I am saying to myself it’s time to go. It does not feel like time to go, it just seems like the next thing. I’m addicted to progress. But I have got here, to moving water. My own wellspring, in fact. I slide my feet in the creek, skin on stone. Sit here. Sit here. Sit here. 

I came here to write poems. Here, in this case, is a wider locality: a particular gathering of river/forest/ocean margins, my favorite place in all the world so far. I cleared a space on my calendar, found a one-room cabin, and hung on by my gritted teeth until the day arrived to make the journey. I am writing a book — no one is surprised — and so I have told myself that is the purpose of the trip. 

I came to write poems, and I am writing poems. Creating is a primary way I encounter and explore; I can’t not do it. To do it well, I need space. I write from spaciousness. Here is space. Here, in fact, is home. This place is a great love of my life. I am writing poems; of course I am writing poems.

But I cannot only write poems, only be a poet. If I didn’t have to make money, this is what I say I would want to do—but poet is an identity that cannot exist alone. A writer of any kind must have something to write about, or all the love and skill and dedication have nowhere to flow, no work in the world to do. 

I have plenty of work in the world. I’m conflicted, confused, frustrated, or downright despairing about all of it. Some of it is worthy, I don’t doubt. Much of it is pure garbage: concerned only with money and obligation. I am looking for more that fits in the first category, yet I can’t imagine taking on more, period. I’m exhausted. I’m traumatized. I’m depressed. I’m ashamed and angry even to write those words. How can they be me? I’m better than that. 

So. My obsession with progress says I’m here to write poems, to make something I can point to with my name on it. But really, I’m here to sit by moving water. I am here to rest. I’m here to excavate — patiently, kindly, bravely, if I can — who is this person who is not, in fact, better than, or even okay. 

The several voices of the creek are just what I need. I listen to them — really listen, separating them mentally, and noting their pitch and volume. They’re not saying anything. They’re saying everything.

Possibly this is not a time to make sense of things. But I — like humans everywhere, and especially like humans who find their deepest work in art, in priesthood, in leadership — am a meaning-maker.

Just now, I was gathering stones. This beach is 98% stones. The longer you look, the more interesting they get. I would name aloud one of my roles or labels, and search for a stone to match it.

A palm-width stone, shaped like a lightning bolt and faced with quartz.

A slick black circle, split almost in two, like a broken-heart emoji.

A smooth and water-polished oval, warm brown and soft grey whirled togther.

A tiny, tumbled pebble, red as a berry, vivid. I perched it on top of a deep green rippling globe.

Each stone I held let me hold at arm’s length a role I inhabit or a label I’ve acquired: things I am, things I am called in certain contexts, and things I kind-of-am, because words for our experience are a collective obsession of a culture trying to re-found itself.

When I ran out, finally, my hand was overflowing: a strange beach offering, word and rock balanced on palm and fingers. I picked them back up, one at a time, and cast them to centerstream, saying to the stone and its label: You are loved here. You are held here. You are worthy. It’s okay if I don’t understand you. You are anchored here. 

I am home on this creekbank: sitting, walking, resting. Making up rituals and scratching out poems. Not figuring myself out, just watching me be. Asserting that’s okay, and learning to believe it — a process, not an accomplishment I am claiming. 

This creek, its river, its woods, its ocean-perfume — this is the one landscape where I belong, in a way I’ve tried to understand all my life, and I no longer need to. I cannot only belong here, only be here. Home and belonging must have some work in the world to do, too. 

For this long summer moment, though? I can rest awhile yet. 

*This is a fine introduction to Shaw’s work, if you’re not familiar. Though the quote I’m referring to comes from a sort of joint interview with Paul Kingsnorth, moderated by Point Reyes Books.

Art Says Stop: Exploring Rest and Recovery

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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood, to be published this autumn by Bored Wolves.

This is the latest installment in Tara’s monthly column about the creative practice.

If you connect with Tara’s work, consider supporting her Patreon. You can also write her a letter via The PenPalProject. 

I keep trying to give my recent poems the same title. Rest Awhile* has offered itself three times in the past year, for very different poems. Unadorned Rest showed up three times in the last month. When a title seems to fit all over the place, it is not in fact a title. It’s a message.


A friend told me today I am her patron saint of walking. I love this, and also, I’m feeling distinctly un-saintlike lately. The type of walking that’s earned me this identity is passionate, exploratory, semi-aventurous, regular, and done at some length. I’ve still got the “regular” part down, but currently the rest of it’s out to lunch. Along with my ability to feel, or enjoy, most things.

I went for a hike the other morning in a favorite landscape. After climbing perhaps a thousand feet (slowly, my main speed these days) — through pine and lupine and springtime grasses starting to go gold, through my new, strange bubble of inertia and indifference — I finally had something like a feeling: a distant, but distinct desire to join my being with the prairie, to rest inside it. 

So I sat down in the middle of the narrow trail. I placed my hands on the hard, cracked soil. I ignored all my training to use this moment: to compose a poem, to compose my body in space, to compose the memory I would take away from “the experience.” 

I went to earth. I sank my hands in the soil. I grounded. There’s a reason we have all of these cliches. 

Skin-time, my aunt calls this, when she’s talking about a baby and their parent. A deeply restful, deeply needful, deeply vulnerable state. 

I rested a long time on that prairie soil. I know it was rest because it had no agenda, and I wasn’t trying to bang one together in a hurry. I felt present, and I felt that as enough.

I know it wasn’t enough rest, though, because getting back up was bleak. A pure act of obeying the training that both serves and stifles me. I had to do it, in the sense that I could not sit on that hillside long enough to effect some kind of recovery, without also encountering the need to eat, find shelter, go back to the money factory so I can pay my rent.

Every so often, we know we need to “take the day off.” We have learned to talk about “disconnecting for the weekend,” and taking the occasional “mental health day.” I’d like to suggest that the day, and even the weekend, is the incorrect unit of measurement to talk about any serious undertaking. 

Like, for example, rest. Like recovery. You can’t grate yourself year after year against personal, national, and planet-level crises — climatic, political, medical, economic — and then “take the day off” and expect to emerge anything like rested. 

This is the message my own art is unsubtly offering right now. My body is offering it too — can we say that the body and the art are separate? — because my intellect has been offering it for years, and I’ve been responding with “yes, you’re right!” and a thoughtful shift or two, and also without actually resting. 

Actually resting would involve… I don’t even know how to answer that invitation. I can just touch the edges of some answers, and they’re radical in ways I’m not ready to fully look upon, let alone embrace. They open up a yawning gulf directly in front of my exhausted feet.

Possibly what I’m lacking is courage to look straight at them. They’re big, and unmapped. But to paraphrase Christina Tran, if I so much as glance at them sideways, I see them staring back at me, straight on. They know: if you want to change your life, you have to change your life.

Ok. So that’s out there. This is a long-term undertaking, and I’m gathering the courage to look into its eyes and befriend it. Meantime, is there any hope for some rest in the day to day? 

This is where I can think usefully in a direction that might be more broadly helpful. What is rest, if it’s more than just “taking the day off?” What does it feel like? Until I can recognize it, I can’t invite more of it into my life, and disinvite more of what actively works against it.

From my own experience, I want to offer two characteristics of rest that are helping me sort out these questions, slowly.

Rest is about focus.

A partial list of things that aren’t restful: going for a walk while also answering email; checking my various text and chat apps on mobile while also working from my laptop; having multiple tabs open in my browser. 

I’m not saying these things are necessarily bad, I’m saying they’re asking my brain to task-switch continually, which prohibits focus. 

Rest is about focus, about presence. Rest is being able to hear myself think. It’s having the mental and temporal space to follow a thought or idea for as long as I want to, and to put that idea down and pick it back up again, usefully, at some leisure. 

It’s not necessarily not-working — the activity itself is perhaps less important to restfulness than how I go about it. Ursula LeGuin puts it like this: “How you play is what you win.”

I can “take a day off” from multi-tasking, or from the internet (which encourages multi-tasking), but the kind of rest I need is the sort that accumulates from living a life that encourages focus most of the time

Every so often, I might take a day or an hour off from that focused being. Maybe there is some really urgent shit going down, and I also need to take a walk. So this time, the mobile comes along. This is fine. 

But this is not how I live. I live in what I’ve previously called The Scatter. I dislike it, and I try to build in as many breaks from it as possible. 

This is the wrong direction of effort: pushing against what rubs me wrong, instead of aligning with what flows cleanly. Or I might imagine it as hauling a very large rock uphill, all the time.

No wonder my results are less than satisfying. Less than restful. 

Rest is anti-consumption and anti-accomplishment.

A way I imagine that I am resting is to read books. The grammar of that sentence shows part of the problem: books. Reading a book — with focus, at leisure — is restful. Reading books — consuming them, perhaps recording their consumption, always thinking about the next one — is not.

Relatedly, I imagine it is restful to sit down with a glass of wine or a plate of snacks, or in front of the TV. Sometimes it is. But half the time, I’ve rushed whatever I was doing before, so I could get to the part of the day where I’m “allowed” to consume alcohol or watch TV. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what alcohol I want, or what film I want, or if alcohol or a film really is what I want, and I don’t have time to figure any of that out because I’m so damn tired; I need to rest before it’s time to do something else. 

Rest here has become another item on the to-do list, and consumption has become a shorthand way to check that item off. It’s a false flag, brought to us by an economy and social order that encourages us to think of ourselves primarily as consumers. To rest, I need to stop falling for it. 

I also like to assume I am resting as long as I am doing one thing at a time. But mostly that one thing is checking something off the to-do list. Answering my emails: one thing. Applying for a residency: one thing. Proofreading the typeset manuscipt of my forthcoming book: one thing. But none of these things are restful. They’re too focused on getting something done.

And they’re too focused on a schedule: getting something done within X minutes, hours, or days. An activity is most restful when it takes the time it takes.


Recently, my family started setting aside an evening a week to build a fire, pour adult beverages, and take turns reading three different translations of Beowulf out loud. This may or may not be your personal idea of a great evening, but here’s something it objectively is: high-quality rest. 

It’s focused. Nobody checks their texts; nobody cooks dinner while also trying to listen. We are not trying to fill time until the next appointment in front of a screen somewhere. 

It’s anti-consumption. We got the books through our library holds system. (Which took the time it took.) Alcoholic beverages (ok, yes, we picked mead) are an adjunct pleasure, not a goal.

And it’s anti-accomplishment. The object isn’t to write an essay comparing the translations, or do a podcast about them, or even to finish. It’s literally just for fun. 

Using this activity as a model is starting to teach me how to think about rest more regularly, what to look for when I go searching for it.

You know what else is restful? Creative practice. But only if what you’re doing is basically play. 

Making art is focus-work, and it’s the opposite of consumption. But for most of us, it’s also goal-based, and for some of us, it brings questions of consumption (are you making a book, for example?) into the spotlight on the other side of the stage. 

We love doing it, though. It can be hard to separate our work from our play, and maybe for some of us, the dream has been that we should not need to.

I’d like to argue that we do. Especially right now. As epidemiologists keep reminding us, the pandemic isn’t over just because folks are getting vaccinated. And as mental health experts keep reminding us, the social and emotional trauma is likely to be years in the unfolding. 

So we need rest — we always have, but now we need it like we need to take Tylenol and lie down when our head is splitting. We need to figure out what rest is for us, and how to live it much, much more often than most of us do. 

A friend was telling me yesterday about the question she’s learning to ask herself, to manage some pretty intense external circumstances: what do I need right now? As in: this moment, not existentially. She answers this in various ways: a nap; a glass of water; to call a friend instead of texting; to spend the day researching, looking forward to some undemanding tv tonight.

I like this question for so many reasons. It’s easy, at least in the asking. It forces a person to take their own self seriously. It opens the door to healing right now. It’s kind and humane, and also it takes no shit. I’m starting to ask it too, and so much of the time, my answer is something focused, something fully-present, something that’s not about consuming or accomplishing. 

This, I think, is why even my poetry — sometimes a restful activity, and sometimes not, depending on how I’m pursuing or inviting it — is sending me regular reminders about the pre-eminent importance of shifting my life into a restful gear. 

My word for the year is Listen. I am trying.

Maybe my word — for the season? — is actually Rest. 


*The reference my brain is going for here is from the Book of Mark, 6:31: “Come away by yourselves to a desert place and rest awhile.” Desert here means deserted, not necessarily dry or cactusy.

Dear Friend

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Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood, on Kickstarter right now!

This is the latest installment in Tara’s monthly column about the creative practice.

If you connect with Tara’s work, consider supporting her Patreon. You can also write her a letter via The PenPalProject. 

I am just in the door from my afternoon commute. This consists of a mile’s easy walking in a circle from my house — marking the close of today’s hours at the laptop-enabled money-factory, and reminding me gently of my physical body, its welcome tether to the seasons and the earth. 

In the moment before this one, I opened the mailbox to find two letters from friends. I smiled at them — a real smile, like I was greeting the friend named in the return address. Now I fold back the top of my little correspondence desk, and lay the letters inside. 

I will wait, and shape a space to give them my full and slow attention. 


Letters, in this last apocalyptic year-and-a-bit, have become for me a particular source of pleasure and perspective — and creative ballast.

I learned to write letters the first time as an adolescent, because writing was the only inexpensive way (remember long-distance phone charges?) to keep the friends I had to leave behind every few years, when the U.S. Navy stationed my dad somewhere new. 

I didn’t learn well, though: I had good intentions, bad follow-through. For one thing, I didn’t know how to write and read letters, in the sense of understanding what I hoped to give and get from the exchange. I had plenty of ideas, but precious little discipline to help me explore them. Thus, when my mood or mindset didn’t line up with my goal, I had zero motivation. So I stopped putting pen to paper. So I lost my penpals.

Letters are a fruit of slowness and attention and care — qualities I cultivate, though often with stunted success. I have found my way back to letter-writing by paying attention to that cultivation, false starts and failures included. (I was learning to garden at the same time. This has perhaps influenced the metaphor.)

First, I noticed how much nourishment I’d begun to derive from some very long exchanges on Twitter. 

I’d ramble for days at a time with people I didn’t know at all well, about books, walking, memory, landscape. We stacked ideas on top of questions on top of enthusiasm. Our conversations were generative and exciting and connective. We lost the thread a lot, in all the excitement. I wished often for the same conversations but slower and deeper, with everyone and every thought given more time to bloom than our present suite of communication technologies allows. 

At which point, I realized I didn’t need to reinvent the wheel. I asked for an address or two. 

Also, I noticed the ways I was missing my friends. These folks are many and various. They live across town, or a few miles downriver. Also in Montana, California, Iowa, Alaska, Pennsylvania, England, Germany. We used to meet at workshops, at church, on boats, on trails, in restaurants, in backyards. 

It’s not like we ever met a lot. But I think about my friends often, and I used to store up things to turn over when we saw each other next. Going nowhere and seeing almost no one has not injured me — a solitary — as it has most folks I know, but I have absolutely missed the opportunities for depth of conversation that arise from a life lived at least partially in physical community. 

There was never a time when I realized all of these connection opportunities in person. But with the sudden inadvisability of in-person contact, relying on texts and Zoom and Twitter began to feel more hollow than before. Instead of handily filling in the gaps, those tools have become primary platforms to maintain entire friendships. They’re not, generally speaking, equal to the long-term task.

Letters are.


Why is this? I’ll offer two understandings gleaned from a year and more of writing deeply and regularly to friends and strangers. 

Both understandings require creative exercise — that formative, necessary thing you (you, reading this) need, and with which I know many of my fellow artists have been struggling, as deaths and lockdowns and vaccine worries and economic pain wear us down. 

First: To write to a person, or to read what they have written you, is to spend real time with them. It’s asynchronous, yes, but I think of it as sacred time, time-out-of-time, in which clock-time ceases to signify.

It’s real time because you are focused on that person. There is no room (indeed, no opportunity) to check your DMs or switch to a different channel, and there is only this one person you can listen to at a time. The conversation is very slow. You can read or write only one side of it at once, which forces a particular kind of concentrated presence. You can pause your conversation to think or feel about something your friend has said. You have what feels like infinite space and time to respond internally, to process, to enjoy. 

You are also doing the work, all this while, of creating your correspondent there in your mind and heart. To recall or imagine a friend is a creative act, and also a specific pleasure. A letter places this work at the center of your being for as long as it takes to write, or to read.

Also: Creating a physical object is an act of magic, or an act of prayer. 

I like to understand things intellectually. I used to think of magic as something abstruse, and I wasn’t really surprised when I couldn’t make it “work.” Obviously, I was doing something wrong. I used to be frankly baffled by prayer. How do you even start? 

Sometimes the answer is just to do or make a thing. The act of creation is… creation. You are taking the materials around you, and shaping them, with your hands and whatever expertise you own, into a new object in the world. 

To create that object with a very specific recipient in mind is to direct the power of your magic, or your prayer, to them, and to the relationship between you. 

A letter, hand-written, maybe illustrated or decorated, is a powerful, non-replicable piece of art, constructed with your hands and given life by your care, your interest, your attention. It forges something, both inside the writer and between writer and reader, that a text message can’t. 


My art has been my anchor in this last long terrible year, and my strong companion. Though poetry, my primary art, cuts as deeply as it heals, still I am fortunate that it has journeyed with me. 

I have written here before that I need to commune with my places to write the deep poems I love. This type of communion has been in short supply for some time, and it has followed that most of the new work I’ve crafted feels adrift, amorphous, unspecific. Not so my letters.

I have said that a letter is a piece of art. I think it is one quite as beautiful and valid as poem. This is the end of the similarities. 

I feel expansive when I sit to write a letter. Free-wheeling, like I’m embarking on an essay — yet much less formal. I can ramble in a letter, and excuse myself with phrases like “wandered off-topic again.” I can spell things wrong and cross them out and muddle my thoughts and still feel unembarrassed to put a stamp on the envelope. A letter feels unfinished because it is. This is a feature of the genre. 

All art is a conversation, but usually we have to remind ourselves that’s true. A letter knows that in its very form. By choosing to create, and enjoy, this physical art form, we assert to each other and we reassure ourselves that we’re not suffering, enjoying, analyzing, and exploring this life alone.

The regular work of this creative reassurance is, I continue to discover, infinitely worth the considerable time and effort it requires. Full and slow attention to ourselves — each other, our world, and our shared and divergent experiences — is yet another healing friend. Speaking for myself, but knowing I am not alone, I can say that I need to cultivate as many of those as I can.

Three Healing Friends

Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood, which will be available for pre-order in May 2021.

This is the latest installment in Tara’s monthly column about the creative practice.

If you connect with Tara’s work, consider supporting her Patreon.

About a month ago, I had one of those days where everything feels hard. Without belaboring the intensity — perhaps you already know what I mean — I will say that the feeling is like a long and unexpected eclipse. A dark day of the soul. 

These eclipses come upon me periodically. No precipitating event is needed. No particular activity, no success, and no special treat will solve them. But I have accumulated a number of useful prescriptions for getting through them.

I recite poems. I remind myself that no feeling is final. I try deliberately to react to the day’s specific difficulties with patience, kindness, and courage. These help, over time, by building my experience of resilience. (“I knew I could do it…because I’d already done it,” as Harry says to Hermione.) It’s true they don’t make me feel better right away. This particular day, I found, to complement them, something that did. 

Three somethings, in fact. I want to think about these three for a little while; about how they serve as healers and friends — not just on dark days, but also everydays. About how, if I invite them, they also heal and companion my practice of writing poems. About how I suspect that they, or somethings like them, are universal friends — not just to me, but to you as well.  

The first healing friend is silence.

Silence comes in many forms. I happen to have a deep need for the one form over which I have no control: silence external to me, all around me. On the particular day I am remembering, I didn’t have it. What I did have: the ability to still my own hands, and close my own mouth on sighs of frustration, explanations, and that talking-it-through-out-loud thing I often do when I feel stressed.

There’s a particular serenity that attends the arrival and settling of inner silence. I cannot compel it. But I’ve discovered that I can invite it by the practice of outer silence. The outer sort and the inner are not equivalent; one does not necessarily even lead to the other. But their substances are similar enough that it’s worth learning how to do the one you really can affect. It’s also more difficult than it sounds. Try it — for more than a minute, or an hour, or a day, whatever your threshold is — and you’ll see.

For awhile, I had a regular practice of deliberate outer silence. I moved house, the pandemic moved in everywhere, and my practice fell away. On this particular dark day, I remembered to turn back toward it, and it felt like turning toward home. 

The second healing friend is sunshine.

If the first friend was familiar, this one surprised me utterly. I have always been a shade-seeker. But this day, I sat at the kitchen table, where the sun is strongest in my house, and I shut my eyes and spread out my hands and just fully soaked in the strengthening light. 

I never do this. My skin marks, for one thing. So I was startled to find, after only a couple of minutes, that my pain had shifted, enough that I didn’t feel constantly like screaming.

I moved to the front porch, so the sun could bathe my whole self. Out of the silence I’d been holding, I sang the sun a song of praise. And then I sang another, and then some totally unrelated songs, just because it felt so good to keep singing, and to keep feeling grateful. 

Singing is the third healing friend.

“Of course,” said a human friend I told about it later. “Singing forces you to breathe.” 


Since that day, I have sought out my new friend sunshine for short soaks. This is the right descriptor — the action is like a warm bath, in its pure pleasure and slowness and physicality. 

And I’ve started a weekly practice of silence and singing. Leave me alone long enough and I’ll sing, but I forget this friend when I’m emotionally tired, or near other humans who aren’t also singing, or keeping company with too many responsibilities. So my practice is sited mid-week, in the afternoon, when I’m most likely to forget without the ritual to prompt me. I sit somewhere by myself, and after holding some silence I let a song rise up, and then another and another, until I feel even. 

Pretty often lately, I’ve been sitting outside, combining my healing pleasures. And pretty often — not always right away, sometimes the next morning, as I walk outside — a new poem leaps from the nest and tries its wings. 

My working theory is that the silence and the sunshine and the singing are key materials of the nest I am always building, to hold whatever thoughts, feelings, rhythms, and ideas become my poems. The more attentively constructed the nest, the more nourished the wordlings it incubates. 

In themselves, silence, sunbathing, and singing are just play. They have neither obvious use nor monetary value. They therefore cannot get in the way of creativity. Once you embrace “wasting” time, and not getting paid, whatever you really need to do or says starts opening up.* 

This maybe sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s not at all. It’s counter-capitalist for sure: it rubs the wrong direction across all the ways we’re trained to think about “producing” — a type of knowledge so ingrained we sometimes mistake it for instinctive or intuitive. But intuition is just experience added to paying attention. And that leads me right to silence and sunbaths and singing, and says to my poem-grasping brain: Stop talking. Start right here. 

What I am doing when I compose is breathing, praying, attending. This is the key, I think, to why my three particular healers encourage my specific work. Each of them teaches these things in the body.

To sit simply in the sun is prayer, is attention, is gratitude. 

To be silent is to attend, without trying to mediate, to the world that breathes inside you and around you. 

To sing is to breathe with, and to make an offering in return. 

Which reminds me that I recently named a particular phase of writing “The Singing.” I gave this name to the time after I’ve finished a complex work, and it’s still inhabiting me, still actively a part of my daily being. What I end up doing in that phase is offering those poems—out loud and with gratitude—to the places, and the states of mind and heart, that helped me compose them. 

I like the symmetry of this: sun and silence and singing lead to attention, leads to Shaping, leads to Singing. Which leads, when the voice is ready, back to silence. Back to sitting (in the sun, perhaps), and accepting this moment’s gift.

What is the moment’s gift, on a day such as I described above, a dark day of the soul? The spiral here is so tight it’s nearly a tautology. The moment’s gift is the sun (or the rain, or the thunder, or the warm breeze.) It’s your body’s ability to quiet, and your throat’s — or just your soul’s — willingness to sing.


*This is the part where some of you say “what a privilege, to accept not getting paid!” And yes, you’re right. The acceptance applies without the privilege, too, but it’s harder to literally live with. Give away money, join a community organization, get involved in local politics. Replace profit-worship capitalism with a system that’s based on people instead of money. Yes, yes, yes, yes this is very hard, and also we can do this.

The Singing

Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer based in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poetry with pen-and-ink illustrations by Lucy Bellwood, which will be available for pre-order in May 2021. This is the latest installment in her monthly column about the creative practice.

Such silence. I step out onto the covered back porch and listen while my eyes adjust to the moonless dark. Nothing. Then: a car on the highway, half a mile away. A light wind, jostling the arborvitae. At last, so low and deep I have to think it first: the winter sea, resonant in the middle distance. 

It is the week between Christmas and the New Calendar Year, and I have come with my housemate-family to a little-sung slice of Oregon’s edge. We’ll spend six days reading, cooking, hiking, and playing board games, without the clock to rule us. It is the end of 2020, and Covid-19 has made the usual holiday travel ill-advised. We like each other enough to vacation together, so we have made yet another virtue of quarantine.

I am intending, this week, to write poetry. Among things I love, writing poetry ranks consistently high. Not poetry itself — though I do like that, very much — but the composing of it, the work of it. Poetry is a vocation primarily because it will not leave me alone. And fortunately I don’t want it to. We’re suited. 

Fast forward five days. I have sat down each morning to write, and I have written. It’s all bad. Beautiful words, that wander with me down lonely beaches and secret, sand-floored halls of pine, in written form decline to become other than blowsy prose. 

I don’t despair. Writing crap is an important part of eventually writing well. But I am disappointed. Such silence, such a lack of responsibility, such an enviable spaciousness of time — and I haven’t written a single other-than-ordinary sentence, even in my oldest and best companion, my journal. 

Is this writer’s block? The conflicting advice on this phenomenon (or figment, depending on who you ask) makes my head ache. My strategy has been to ignore the idea unless it becomes immediately relevant. I’m pondering it this afternoon, and deciding it’s still not applicable. I’m writing; I’m just not writing anything worth working on. I close the keyboard, button my jacket, pull on my boots. The beach will sort me out, one way or another. 


The sharpening southwest wind drives rain into my eyes, rolls cylinders of seafoam up the winter-steep sand. I’m grounded for balance among dull-gold sedges, in the space between three big dunes. I am speaking poems. I realize I have been doing this — in my mind, under my breath, quite loudly in places devoid of other humans — all week. 

This is the same beach, in the same season, where I composed two poems from my recently finished, forthcoming book, Tell the Turning. It’s these two I’m speaking now. One’s a memorized whole; the other’s a jumble of fragments, puzzle pieces spilling from my tongue to scatter sandward. 

I have stopped trying to compose. A fierceness has welled up in me, a need to speak these poems already shaped. To whom, and to what purpose, am I telling them? Sky and sea accept them without comment. 


I have written before that the process of writing a long work has two distinct phases. The Gathering is a gentle, curious, wandery state. The Shaping that follows it is more like falling in love: focused, exhilarating, intense. Until now, these are as far as my experience went. 

Tell the Turning has been Gathered and Shaped (and Re-Shaped.) It has found a publisher (and — unexpectedly, wonderfully — an illustrator.) All of its momentum now belongs to them: typesetting, pen and ink, an ISBN. My work would seem to be finished. Today I am learning that this is not the case. There’s a third phase.

Back from the beach, this afternoon I have been in the hot tub again. (It’s a principal attraction of the house we rented.) This too summons a poem — nothing to do with a hot tub, but with a feeling I have this week, of immediate enclosing warmth surrounded by elemental chill, of surfacing to a space of quiet after a time of turmoil. 

This moment, I am bundled in blankets on the porch. I can hear the distant surf just over the pastures, feel the cold fastening down as the sky solidifies, and listen to the wind in the douglas-firs, and a gutterspout dripping with melted frost. Poems come like memories: sharp or gentle; insistent. Now that I’m paying attention to their need for it, I’m letting each one borrow my voice, and take its time to take form and flight. 

I am, as near as I can tell, incanting Tell the Turning — helping in some speak-aloud way to encourage its physical form. I did not begin on purpose, but I am speaking now with serious intention. I love these poems, these lines and lilts and rhythms already born of me. I am no longer in charge of the logistics of their physical manifestation. Instead, I am chanting them into being. 

Because poems are more than sounds, because they require also rhythm, and often feel as though they are halfway set to music — the name of this phase (it’s so obvious now) is The Singing. 


I sometimes don’t realize I’m conceiving a new project. Especially if it’s a big one, like a book — something that will begin in the amorphous Gathering stage and gestate there for awhile. I have a lot of ideas, and a need to be always creating. Sometimes it takes being blocked — as I have been these past five days — to show me that I’m trying to create something I am not yet ready to create. Intuition is telling me: this is not a project, yet. It’s telling me also: Sing the project that’s still inside your heart. 

The Singing seems to be about launching a finished work into the world, but there’s a shadowy complement to that much-admired forward movement. The Singing contains a sadness too, a letting go. It has come to help prepare me — to live in the world without having this work to do. 

There will be other work. I’ve been trying this week to get to some of it, but it’s the unfocused, Gathering sort, and it’s not yet satisfying. The concentrated work of The Shaping is a long way off again, and I miss it. I’m tripping over my longings because I still need to acknowledge and let them be. 

Wendell Berry wrote a line that comes to me often: Again I resume the long lesson. This understanding that I cannot do two, three, ten things at once without consequence is a long lesson I am learning over and over. I am done writing Tell the Turning, but it is not done with me. Before I can move on to give full attention to another project of this scale, I need to shape this one some wings and let it go. I need to shape myself some wings, too: for floating, dreaming, back toward a Gathering space. 

It seems my way of doing this is to Sing. 


I’ve brought them home from the coast, and will be incanting some of these poems publicly as well. Typically, I publish one original poem a month, with audio, at PDXpersky.com. In the months leading up to Tell the Turning’s release (so, starting now), I’m turning that practice into an extension of The Singing. You are cordially invited.