Topic: Clockhouse

Of pens, peonies and summer rain…

By Christine Anne Piesyk | June 29, 2008 |

‘On the Road in America’ is an occasional column of meanderings and musings, written during my semi-annual sojourn north.

After the first bursts of near tropical heat in Clarksville, the cooling summer rain in Vermont is a gift to cherish. It began last night, after a day of haze and clouds. It ushered in coolness somewhere around sunset, and by nightfall I could hear the raindrops lightly kissing the brick sidewalks, dripping lightly from the eaves. No blustering wind, no storms. Just that gentle rain.

This morning I walked by a bank of peonies, damp and brightened by that rain, slightly bent by the weight of water. The temptation to pick a few stems was strong.

We are a large group this semester at Goddard College, writers all of poetry, prose, fiction and non, memoir, plays and screenplays, even graphic novels. Unlike other residencies here, this one — by its very nature as an MFA writing program — requires a certain amount of solitude in and around such activities as workshops, advisor sessions, seminars, and sometimes heated discussions abut things like style, form, voice, perspective, language… Students meet, interact and retreat for the solitary task that is composition. «Read the rest of this article»

Sections: Arts and Leisure, Education, Opinion, Spirituality | No Comments

Winter: A morning meditation

By Christine Anne Piesyk | January 4, 2008 |

It is snowing. Lightly. Soft flurries that dance to the earth, not in the wild frenzy of a winter storm but rather, in a time-honored waltz that whispers “I’m here, come out and walk with me!” So what if it is -4. There is no wind, ergo, no wind chill.

A half hour before, I unfurled myself from the toasty warmth of wooley blankets and prepared to meet the day. Destination: computer lab. I step from my dorm to the outdoors when the magic of that gentle snow happened. In the lamplight, the ground (which is measured in feet of snow) sparkled with the crystalline glitter of well chilled granular snow, diamonds and shards of silver reflecting light. From the low roofline of the Clockhouse (below) icicles are measured by the yard, growing downward, earthbound and more weighty with each new inch.

I am the only one up and about, just me,  with a fleece scarf loosely hung around my neck, my wool coat still unbuttoned, gloves neatly folded in the pocket. «Read the rest of this article»

Sections: Opinion, Spirituality | No Comments