Several years ago, I drove to Joshua Tree National Park for a writers workshop and discovered another kind of writers block: writing inside the box.
The leaders introduced themselves and a park ranger who was standing nearby. She introduced herself, then said "I am going to take you for a short walk on a nature trail. Please follow me."
The woman next to me shrugged a non-verbal "Huh?" Yes, I thought, we came to write, not to study the flora and fauna of the desert.
We followed her up the trail. She stopped at a Yucca, described its life cycle and pointed to its cream-colored flowers. A man stepped forward and asked, "How does this figure into the workshop? I'm not interested in writing about plants and animals."
The ranger smiled. "What color comes to mind when I say Fire Truck. she asked.
We replied with a unanimous "Red."
She continued with "Grass?" and we all said "Green."
Then she held up a card and asked us what color we saw... RED
I heard myself and others say "Red." but somebody behind me said "Blue."
Yes! I thought. The word is red but the color is blue.
The ranger had made her point. The natural world doesn't speak the language of words. It speaks the language of color, sound, smell, taste and touch. We were in our semiotic heads, not in our sensory bodies. Our writing would remain in a sensory desert until we learned how to turn off the interpreting mind to really see and hear and feel what we were looking at, listening to and touching.
As the tour continued, she led us out of the boxes we had built around our thinking and into the world of in-the-body awareness. We looked, listened, smelled, touched and tasted. When we returned to the outdoor pavilion and the leaders of the workshop, we were ready to take our writing out of those boxes too.
The leaders introduced themselves and a park ranger who was standing nearby. She introduced herself, then said "I am going to take you for a short walk on a nature trail. Please follow me."
The woman next to me shrugged a non-verbal "Huh?" Yes, I thought, we came to write, not to study the flora and fauna of the desert.
We followed her up the trail. She stopped at a Yucca, described its life cycle and pointed to its cream-colored flowers. A man stepped forward and asked, "How does this figure into the workshop? I'm not interested in writing about plants and animals."
The ranger smiled. "What color comes to mind when I say Fire Truck. she asked.
We replied with a unanimous "Red."
She continued with "Grass?" and we all said "Green."
Then she held up a card and asked us what color we saw... RED
I heard myself and others say "Red." but somebody behind me said "Blue."
Yes! I thought. The word is red but the color is blue.
The ranger had made her point. The natural world doesn't speak the language of words. It speaks the language of color, sound, smell, taste and touch. We were in our semiotic heads, not in our sensory bodies. Our writing would remain in a sensory desert until we learned how to turn off the interpreting mind to really see and hear and feel what we were looking at, listening to and touching.
As the tour continued, she led us out of the boxes we had built around our thinking and into the world of in-the-body awareness. We looked, listened, smelled, touched and tasted. When we returned to the outdoor pavilion and the leaders of the workshop, we were ready to take our writing out of those boxes too.