It was just over a year ago that Kathleen Dean Moore suggested “Living Upstream” for this year’s theme. There wasn’t really need for another choice. As soon as we saw the words it felt right. And not to be too metaphorical, but the rest of the work seemed to flow from there. It’s an evocative phrase. Especially, I think, in the West. Water, it’s abundance or lack, is quite literally surrounding us… You can hear the Wallowa River from here. See Wallowa Lake. Feel the Snake, the Columbia, the Pacific, the promise of a summer storm. The fear of the Red Flag Warning in a drought-parched land.
But for me, the stream keeps turning into time. We’re all living downstream from somewhere, someone. From our personal history, our family history, our genealogical, geographical, and political history.
This place, like all places, is seeped in it. The downstream impact of glaciers, of fire, of treaties not honored, the life-cycle of salmon not understood, of climate change, of the People, of Chinese Massacre Cove, Maxville, and the timber collapse. Stories shared and stories stolen.
What are we sending downstream? What lessons have we learned? How will we tell the stories of the times we live in? Of the people we love and not? What words will you choose?
To quote Ursula Le Guin:
“We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.”
I start thinking about this address in January. In April I decide it’s time to start writing. Then, in June, I pick up my pen. Stop me if this sounds familiar. July 1, I start to panic. This year, though, it wasn’t procrastination (well, only…) that got me. It was over-stimulation. Too many thoughts. Too much news. Too many sad stories. So much fear. To quote George R. R. Martin, “The night is dark and full of terrors.” The Dragons are real. Says Ursula, “People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons. From within.”
By the way… I’ve come to find that Ursula has a quote for everything. Seriously! Try it. Pick up any Le Guin book and drop your finger. It’s astounding. I think you could google Ursula K. Le Guin chocolate pudding and something profound would come up. Probably even life-changing.
I digress.
When I finally sat down to write, the words didn’t come together. There were lots of words. Here’s a sample:
Fear… Scared… This is not normal… Check your privilege… Must not fail… orange… salmon… smoked salmon and bourbon… Binge-watch… I still have a crush on BJ Hunnicut… Clear thinking… Clear conversations… Clear water… Sons of the Pioneers… Oh, God… Failure is inevitable.
So, when the words don’t come, I turn to other writers to give me perspective, hope, wisdom, and yes, an excuse to procrastinate further. Some of them are in this tent tonight. Some sending little messages downstream from years ago.
One particular essay from Dave Eggers caught my eye. On June 29, he wrote an opinion piece for The New York Times about the lack of art and culture in the current White House administration. Did any of you read it? He starts with
“In the 17 months that Donald Trump has been in office, he has hosted only a few artists of any kind. One was the gun fetishist Ted Nugent. Another was Kid Rock. They went together (and with Sarah Palin). Neither performed.”
Yeah, there haven’t been any poetry readings either. I checked.
Eggers compares the current “cultural vacuum” to former administrations, all filled with art, music, and literature. The litany is depressing. Don’t read this if you’re feeling off. Although, said Ursula, “What sane person could live in this world and not be crazy?”
However, I found a challenge in his last paragraph. Eggers writes,
“…with art comes empathy. It allows us to look through someone else’s eyes and know their strivings and struggles. It expands the moral imagination and makes it impossible to accept the dehumanization of others. When we are without art, we are a diminished people — myopic, unlearned and cruel.”
That got me going. I love a good challenge. Everything started to connect. This is why we’re here. This is why I love what I do. Why I know the work we do here, together, matters. We can teach empathy.
Now, I’m going to pass the challenge on to you. This is your call to action, folks. Your words can connect others to your experiences, and as that spreads, we grow a little kinder, a little wiser, and maybe less navel-gazing in nature.
You are the artists. You are the world-savers. You know that, right?
This work you do. This writing. It’s so important. It’s the message in the bottle you send downstream. It’s the boat, the life raft, the very water itself. The words you capture, the worlds you create, the memories you collect and interpret, they can change the world. These words have power, magic. I’m standing in front of an army of word wizards. Think what you can do.
Each of you, your dedication to your craft, your bravery in sharing your stories, your commitment to helping others find their words, you give me hope. Because you’re here, things almost feel right again, normal. You inspire me.
And you challenge me to do better. Really.
Last Summer in this very space, something happened that changed the way we think about our work. I won’t go into details, in part because one of the lessons I learned was not to tell others’ stories without their permission. What I will say, is that I learned about the blindness that can accompany privilege, that all of us have some privilege, that good intentions don’t come with “no harm” guarantees, and that I have a lot to learn about how to lead a truly diverse, equitable, and inclusive organization. Thankfully, there were people brave enough to come forward to let us know we can do better to serve those who have less privilege, and offered their help to show us how. Empathy in action.
Knowing we can do better and actually working to do so are very different things. The work is difficult, but it’s something the Fishtrap staff are all committed to doing. In the past year, we’ve spent many hours in training sessions and discussions to learn about and identify obstacles we may have to serving all of our writers and story lovers in an authentic, safe, and welcoming way. We’re looking at every aspect of our work, from the text on the website and registration tools, to the space inside the Fishtrap House, to identifying ways we can increase scholarships and make the application process better. This work is ongoing. We’re just getting started.
And we will never forget that it was a group of writers in this place that sent us on our way downstream.
You are also part of this work. That this place is special is undeniable. That it’s always comfortable for everyone is not always the case. Please help us create a space that is welcoming and safe for all to create. Really listen to the words of those who don’t look like you, live where you do, speak the same languages, have the same abilities, eat the same food, or listen to the same music. Be brave. Share your stories. Despite the rhetoric, it really is a fact that our differences, our diversity, makes our community stronger.
And if for any reason you don’t feel safe, welcome, included, please talk to your instructor, or come see me. We can have a cup of coffee. (The coffee here is excellent!).
Finally, empathy starts with being kind to yourself. Get some writing done, take it all in, but don’t be afraid to stop and breathe. We pack a lot of activity into these eight days. Writing workshops, songwriting classes, open mics, craft talks, evening programs, panel discussions, book signings, and long discussions over meals. Be intentional. Choose what inspires you.
I say again, this is a remarkable place. Soak it in! It’s a place that marks everyone who comes here. From now on, we all share a connection, a river system. As we were inspired by the writers that came before us, we are telling the stories that will inspire writers living downstream. The night may indeed be dark and full of terrors and dragons and shouting Cheetos (shouldn’t of had that bourbon when I wrote that), but it’s also full of the magic of writers.
If you will, please allow me one more word of wisdom from Ursula:
“No darkness lasts forever. And even there, there are stars.”