by Gwen Westerman Griffin

The end of summer looms. Many of us have been traveling, reluctantly or readily, going back home for family reunions or ceremonies, coming back home from vacations or powwows. “Back home” implies a return, a cycle of returning, as if it is expected, natural, a fact of life. During the Loft’s Native Inroads program this summer, our group realized that we all had written about families gathered around kitchen tables, about connections to generations before us, and about journeys we make to or away from home. We laughed, and cried, as we saw ourselves in each other’s work through descriptions of relatives, meals, loss, and fulfillment. Back home is a place we are all trying to get to, a place where we belong, where the landscape is familiar, and where our roots are the deepest.

by Dara Syrkin

Educators, travel writer and chef, business writer, business owner. What do they have in common? Writing.

B. J. Carpenter, Maggie DeGennaro, Sherry Derus, Elsa Hofmeister, Mary Henrickson, and Elaine Voboril met in one of Mary Jean Port’s memoir classes and formed a writing group in 2002.

B. J. went though major life transitions in the fall of 2002 and joined Mary Jean’s class as a means to address them. While working on her memoir these past five years, Carpenter has done freelance checking/editing on several local food books and also completed an illustrated travel/food book on Minnesota coauthored with painter-photographer Shelley Holl, which will be published in March 2010.

Maggie joined the group in an ongoing quest for balance. The processes of reading others’ words and writing her own provide sustenance. The absence of judgment creates an atmosphere in which she can take huge risks and be completely naked in words and emotions. Maggie explains, “Our friendships are grounded in a unique knowledge of each other from our writing that is trusted and revered. Our connectedness is a lifeline that continues to blossom as it is nurtured.”

Sherry has written memoir and fiction, with her latest endeavor a combination of both. Her teenage son, Tyler, suggested sternly that his mom should take swimming or piano lessons or write a book before he graduates from high school. (Sherry notes that he said write it, not publish it.) The group, like her son, holds Sherry accountable and provides some firm but gentle prodding that encourages her to keep writing.

Elsa came to memoir writing because she hoped to capture and define the world of her often chaotic childhood. She wanted to explore the experiences and relationships that influence and shape a life. Two years into this process, she was invited to write the vocation histories of a community of Minnesota Visitation Sisters. Her book, Extraordinary Ordinary Lives, was published in March 2009, and she has now returned to writing her memoir. She feels that her writing sensibilities have deepened, thanks to the Visitation adventure.

Writing brought Mary through the grief, beauty, and pain of adolescence, and she decided to return to that source of inspiration. After a serious bicycle accident, she worked with the group through challenges such as double vision and memory loss and is back to writing again.

Self-discovery for Elaine didn’t begin to manifest until the fifth decade of her life, when the former farm girl opened her eyes and her heart to a world she had never dreamed existed. Why had it taken so long? Gradually, she began to understand that she, like the fall asters and chrysanthemums in her garden, was a late bloomer. Writing her memoir helps her tend and nurture those bright, hardy flowers.

They credit Mary Jean with the way the group is run. The scheduled writing is read aloud. Group members underline passages they like and write suggestions in the margins. “No one judges or shames. We only make suggestions. Offense is not taken if the next week we come together and the suggestions aren’t incorporated in the person’s work,” says Sherry.

“We don’t talk about just the great stuff, though,” offers Mary. “We’re not shy about saying ‘I got lost here’ or ‘That doesn’t belong’ or ‘You had a change of voice there.’ ”

“We’re kind in the process, not abrasive,” says Elsa. “Let’s put it this way. We’re not Minnesota nice, but we are courteous. We’re all better writers and editors because of this group.”

They’ve tried meeting at other places, libraries and coffee shops, but don’t like the noise and lack of privacy. “If we hadn’t all come to the Loft, we wouldn’t have met. So this place, this room, feels like home,” says B. J., referring to the Book Club Room.

“We’re all helpful and enthusiastic about each other’s work,” says Elaine. She takes care of scheduling the space and organizes the group by documenting and communicating whose work will be discussed next.

“The essence of caring is presence,” says Elsa. “So we show up. Our respect for the group is evidenced by our taking it seriously. That means we don’t miss meetings without a good reason, we come on time, and we bring writing if we have committed to doing so. We don’t always succeed perfectly, but those are our intentions and our goal. We care for and about each other.”

interviewed by Dara Syrkin

His colleagues call him a free spirit. Generous and caring. A mature, solid, well-rounded person. Someone who puts everything he’s got into what he’s doing. And certainly no one can accuse James Bettendorf of retiring in his retirement. A math teacher to kids and an educator of educators, Jim is educating himself about poems and their impact.

Jim taught mathematics and worked in education for more than 30 years. “Math and poetry are similar,” he says. “Math is an art, a creative thing. And being able to approach math in different ways in the teaching process, to reach all kids, feeds that creativity. Teachers have to be like swallows.”

Teachers also have to bend with change. “Kids themselves haven’t changed that much,” says Jim, “but they’re exposed to so much. Today’s children have a much bigger frame of reference than children in decades past.

“And society has changed. When I first started teaching, teachers were respected, held up in society. Now we more often run into the us/them, teachers-versus-parents scenario. Kids are generally hardworking, good kids. The bottom line is that whatever they’re learning doesn’t matter till it matters. And teachers are responsible for making it matter. But that’s hard to do for the kids who are hungry or worried about where they’re sleeping that night.”

Jim’s writing reflects his teaching. “How do I make it matter? I have to know my audience. I write to describe events, scenes, or try to get someone to think about injustice that I see. Mostly I touch on the universal experiences everyone can identify.

“I was on campus at St. John’s chanting ‘Hell no, we won’t go’ and attending ROTC courses. I had to be part of ROTC to receive a federal student loan. My opinion about war might be different if I’d been a teenager during World War II. But I was in my twenties at the height of Vietnam and lost several friends to the war. I’ve had a hard time reconciling war ever since.

“Writing poetry is a way to express my feelings about what is happening politically. Sometimes I rant in protest of war and other injustices. I join a lot of artists I know—writers, painters, sculptors, et cetera—who have the feeling that there is injustice in the world and that they have to speak to that and be a voice for people who have no voice or are unable to find it.”

Jim’s work carries many themes. “When my mom died a few years ago, every poem ended up being about her death. When I wrote about my dad’s death, it turned into a poem about childhood. I love writing poems about nature and tying natural images to the human universal. When I’m particularly angry about injustice, I write through it.

“Writing through,” Jim says, “often yields some nice stuff. Sometimes the first draft of a poem can be considered the same as freewriting, like clearing your throat. I put on some good music and just write. Whatever comes out is there for a reason.”

The rewriting and editing process is critical to incorporating the nice stuff. “I’ve learned that my intentions have to be fluid. What I thought was a completed poem took on a different direction entirely as I edited it. I think we have to trust our intuition.

“And we shouldn’t piss off the Muse. The gods are mad enough at humans for attempting to make art. Some cultures intentionally insert a mistake in their artwork as an acknowledgment that humans are fallible. I should be so lucky to have to insert one intentionally.”

Jim started writing in high school in the late 1950s, early ’60s. He cites Jack Kerouac as an influence. Jim was not encouraged by his parents to write. He was, however, encouraged to teach. His love of literature and poetry never waned, but “a teaching career doesn’t leave you with energy to be creative.”

Decades later, after a divorce, Jim joined a writing group. “Writing was therapy at that point, but then expanded so I could write simply for the love of writing. I was on ‘simmer’ until about five years ago, when I took my first class at the Loft. I wanted to write my mother’s memoir but gravitated to poetry. I asked myself, ‘What do I need to write poetry?’ ”

The answer came with a little help from a friend. Jim’s partner, Pat, served Jim dinner accompanied by a brochure about the Loft’s Master Track program.

Now Jim’s work has been published and he’s nearing completion of a poetry manuscript. “I’m in a writers group with Master Track colleagues, including Jude Nutter, and another group, too. We’re all struggling with the same things. And we all trust and respect each other. I remember the first time I did a student reading. The butterflies . . . But I knew I fit in here.”

Trust is a large element of assembling his manuscript. “Working with Thomas R. Smith, sitting down and physically putting together the manuscript, realizing I have enough poems of quality to do that, has been very rewarding,” says Jim. “It has also been very challenging. It takes a lot of time and energy. You have to trust your own instincts and the few people with whom you share your work. And embrace the vulnerability that comes with that.

“The rewards of writing far outweigh the price,” says Jim. “I’ve learned some great lessons along the way. Develop a thick skin. Be gentle with yourself. (We can be so hard on ourselves.) Be open to everything; as William Stafford says, honor even the ideas you don’t value. The journey counts; the path is the most important part. Have goals and move toward them; don’t wait for something to happen. Keep going. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. When you’re in a pile of crap, it’s not forever. The light at the end of the tunnel is not (usually) an oncoming freight train.

“And I know I have a lot of reading to do. If I have one regret, it’s that until now I haven’t had time to read all the wonderful poets out there. But my belief is that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be today. Rilke says you have to ask yourself if you would die if you couldn’t write. Surely, something is missing if I’m not writing. Maybe not in the sense that I have to eat, but close.”