This week, I used a poem from a fellow Amherst Writers & Artists affiliate as one of the prompts in a Words to Brew On meetup at Brew Ha-Ha! in Baton Rouge. The poem title is Lumpen Clay. The poet, Jan Haag. I especially like that she posted this on my grandmother’s birthday, the very day I used it. And, in her words, I discovered a lump of generative clay to turn over some thoughts that were on my heart.

This writing response was especially inspired by these lines of Jan’s poem:

where the two in charge

stayed embroiled, even on the day
the first of them died,

This is the piece that emerged during the fifteen minutes of writing time.

10 July 2025

It is so hard to let go. We cling to our arguments, stand on our “That’s not fair” with a crippling ferocity. It’s the wrench that breaks relationships, the knot that tangles communication.

Yet it’s part of the lumpen clay, isn’t it? To argue. We need to make our point lest we disappear. This is how we know we are. We say it. We stab our flagpole into the clay to prove our point, stake our claim for ourselves.

I have trouble releasing my hurt and disappointment. I’ve spun those silken threads into a giant web. Beware when you approach me, lest my web drape itself across your face and you suffer a mad dash and frantic effort to remove the disquiet of it.

How do I muster the courage to clear this web that entraps us? Why am I afraid to release it?

Sometimes it’s “that’s not fair” but I think it’s also existential. If the hurt and disappointment I suffered are lost and forgotten, I lose part of my history, part of myself, part of the lumpen clay that makes the me that walks into the world collecting hurt.

It’s a tricky fix. Instead of pushing away, I’ll offer something new. I’ll seek the joys, let them take their place next to the hurt. I’ll lift the joy like an offering, a gentle introduction, and invite it to its place on the sofa, next to hurt. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll add another and another. I’ll host a party of joys and blessings that will surely drown out the moan of resentment.

It’s hard to be kind to those who are closest when I wear the hurt on my sleeve and the quickness of anger on my tongue. It’s hard to be gentle if I only keep company with disappointment.

Can I spin a new web? Strong? Stronger than this one? With threads of celebration, because, holy cow!, what a miracle to know someone who will put up with me until one of us dies. Someone who is willing to get to that finish line with me even if the web is still sticky with resentment. What if I spin a web that collects the laughter of joy, the love of a light touch, the thrum of the heart at peace.

This lumpen clay that is me has not hardened yet. I can make new impressions on its shape and on the way it presents to the world. I can knead and fold it, press the hurt and resentment in, blend it. They’ll always be part of me, but they needn’t be the part of me that walks freely among others. They needn’t be the composition of my web.

I use the word “magic” often when talking about writing, especially generative writing. And I’ll keep using it. The magic is palpable in generative writing communities. The words that emerge are generative in themselves. They generate a gentle path toward healing and compassion. This practice is a generative clay that generates community.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025