Introductions

by katiemast

I recently returned to New Mexico after a 3-week trip with my sister across six eastern and mid-western states. My first stop was home: Scottdale, Pennsylvania. Scottdale is a small town of about 7,000 just an hour southeast of Pittsburgh and the sights and smells of fall were just touching the hills and creeksides that make up the southwestern Pennsylvanian landscape.

My parents moved to Scottdale just in time for me to begin my freshman year of high school, and there they took their first pastorate. Co-pastoring, they have led the Mennonite community in the town through some difficult changes and heartbreaking goodbyes. Despite the struggles, the community has remained supportive and encouraging, a place I still find home. Several people from the community contributed financially, in prayers, and in love as I explored InterPlay with the Next Gen women.  I wanted to both tell them a little about that experience and give them a more concrete idea of what I was doing there. I wanted to say “Thank you.”

My mom helped to arrange a date, and at 7:00 on a Monday night, 10 people gathered in the basement of the church. Mom had said to me numerous times over the phone and again while I was home, “I’m really nervous about your InterPlay thing. I’m only doing this because it’s *you* leading it.” My high school mentor also expressed a lot of nerves and asked, “Are you going to make us, like, solo dance in front of everyone else?” My attempts to calm their fears were fruitless; they had very specific, and anxiety-producing, ideas of what we’d be doing together. Still, they showed up.

We began, as usual, with some gentle warm-ups: stretching and checking in with our skin, hanging, shaping, swinging, and thrusting. I told a big body story about my time in Oakland and then introduced babbling. I thought this group would probably be more comfortable with story- and sound-based forms than movement, but I turned out to be wrong. We did some warm ups to hand dances, and ended with following and leading to some music. Everyone was so into it that I decided to keep going and suggested we do following and leading, switching leaders back and forth as desired. Again— everyone participated enthusiastically. From there, I told another story, but with a gesture choir this time, invited any other stories that wanted to be told (no one volunteered), and ended with some toning.

Mom had (brilliantly) suggested we provide some refreshments, which allowed us a great chance to sit together and… tell some more stories. Of course, there were many more stories to be told that night, but I watched people who would usually use, maybe, small gestures in their speaking set their plates on their lap and wave their arms about as they spoke. We were all in a mindset to be more expressive with our bodies and it was fun to watch that manifest.

My family helped to clean up after everyone else left and as we were doing dishes, Mom said, “Katie, that was so much FUN!” She was beaming. My sister added, “Yeah. And that could be really therapeutic too.”

Two days before our gathering, it was announced that the doors of the Mennonite Publishing House, which had been a major employer for Mennonites in the area for decades, will be closing for good next year as part of a merger. As this community faces yet another major challenge, bracing for more hearbreaking goodbyes, I am glad we could share an evening of fun and exformation. I will be dancing on their behalf.

Playing with Color

by katiemast

For the two weeks we spent in Oakland, the western wall of the studio was lined with water bottles and the sweatshirts, scarves and socks we’d discarded as our bodies and the room warmed up through movement. Amid the clothing were the three-ring binders which Cynthia and Phil had given us, imparting the Secrets of InterPlay. Many of us brought our journals as well, the smooth pieces of paper wrapped neatly in black leather or held together with metal spirals.

My journal was new and its blank pages waited threateningly. I had never owned such a fine collection of thick, white pages bound so delicately, yet sturdily, with waxed hemp twine. “For such a fine journal,” the miser in me whispered, “only the finest words will do. None of this simply jotting down thoughts in incomplete sentences, hoping to come back later and fill in the blanks- this is a place for complete stories, insightful reflections, and carefully scripted text. Do not write in this book while riding the bus.”

I’ve long believed in the benefits of writing with lovely pen- one that flows smoothly, feels good in the hand, creates a mark on the pages that pleases the eye. And certainly for an excellent journal, it is important to have an excellent pen. I had two: one black, one blue. The black pen rolled smoothly on an extra-fine tip, stopping sharply and precisely, while the blue was almost a marker, forming letters of warm edges and curves.

With a deep breath, I lifted my excellent blue pen to the excellent blank page of my most excellent journal, and with a sigh, let go of the need to put down perfect words, and began to fill the pages with blue, then black, ink.

But something wasn’t quite right.

The week before my flight to Oakland, I visited the New Mexico Museum of Natural History, which had a temporary exhibit called “Drawing on Nature.” The colorful journals of several artists which lay open beneath glass display cases depicted maps of travels, the bark of trees, the outline of coyote prints in the snow. The images filled up a corner or half or sometimes almost the entire page, accentuated with textual noticings: the temperature and direction of the wind, the sounds and smells of winter, the adventures of getting from here-to-there. They were pen and ink, watercolors, colored pencils, and the books were fine, leather-bound paper, series of tiny note cards, and small, hand-bound journals. They were beautiful, communicating through words, color, and form.

In Oakland, I recalled this display as I noticed the colorful shapes and patterns in the journal that Shelly carried with her from the western wall of the downstairs studio to the apartment where we ate lunch. I try not to look at works in progress unless invited, especially not those housed in a journal, but I watched as Shelly pulled out sticks of color during breaks in activities, casually filling her rectangular pages (She gave me the go-ahead to mention her work here), and I was inspired.

Last week, I bought a set of colored pens/markers. They live in tidy rows in a plastic case with a snap-shut lid which can bend backwards, holding the case upright at an angle for easy-access to the 10 vibrant triangular “ergonomic” sticks. Their ink is bright and sharp and moves steadily through small felt tips. It almost feels a bit much, these perfect pens in such an appealing arrangement, but I think, “excellent pens for an excellent journal.”

And I love it. I love writing in color and edging the pages with designs. Sometimes I put on a little music and do a sort of solo hand-dance on the page, setting the pen on the paper and letting my hand move as it would like, shaping, changing colors, adding text as the words arrive. I love the freedom of creating something altogether new and unplanned, letting go of the need to choose the perfect words or colors or designs, and using excellent materials to create.

On Not Hiding What I’m Doing

by katiemast

We gathered today as we do every mid-morning, circled up campfire-style, comfortable in our red, foldable floor chairs, notebooks and pens at the ready to jot down the bits of wisdom and details of InterPlay practice imparted by Cynthia and Phil. We had housekeeping details to discuss: events for our few remaining evenings together and flight departure times. Cynthia had warned us earlier in the week of the arcing tendency of people gathered together. She suggested that we might, recognizing the impending end of our time together, feel compelled to cover all the details right away, tell all our stories, dredge up all the secrets. You know, to make the most of our time. She also suggested that we resist that urge.

Maybe Friday isn’t the end of our time together, she suggested. Maybe this group will continue beyond the beautiful red of these brick walls, beyond the smooth wooden floor where we dance each day. Maybe The End is a year from now. Maybe five. Maybe never. (Let’s dream big, yeah?)

But. The inevitable end of our time sharing physical space for these two weeks is on its way and we were collecting the details of our departures. Phil brought up our final point of housekeeping for the morning. Some of us, it had been discovered, had not been entirely forthcoming about our…endeavors.

“Is there anyone else who has been hiding what they are doing?” Phil asked the group, his eyebrows raised in stern expectation. I held my breath, tried to read the expressions on my friends’ faces as we sat around the circle. Which one had been discovered Doing Stuff and Hiding it? Were there others?

As it turned out, several were guilty. I, possibly, was among the greatest offenders. Over the past days, months, even years, we’d been doing creative work. Some would even dare to call it Art. And here we were, young artists gathered together, exploring creative expression, confronting places of discomfort and fear, facing the serious issues of our time, and yet holding back when in came to our previous work.

There are all kinds of excuses I find for hiding what I’m doing.

It’s not done yet.

It’s not good enough.

I don’t want to seem, like… proud, or anything.

I’m surrounded by such amazingly, fantastically creative people creating phenomenal work and I don’t want to be embarrassed by letting them see mine.

Shake that all off. Take a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

It is true that I am in the presence of phenomenally creative, intelligent women who are passionate about a huge variety of issues. They are strong leaders who inspire and challenge me. I am superbly delighted to be in and among this group. And because I respect them, (and because my poems are almost done and they’re not so bad and I’m a little bit proud and I hoped my friends would be impressed more than I feared embarrassment,) I shared a few of my poems tonight.

And when I’m honest about it, I like not hiding what I’m doing.