Handbound Books by Ren Powell
I promised myself a publication date of April 1, 2021. And I managed to pull it off … after what seems like so many years of just thinking about it.
This is the first and only time I will duplicate much of the content of my monthly newsletter in my blog posts. But since I have a whopping dozen on my list so far… I’m spreading the news thick as peanut butter today because I am proud, excited, and a little bit desperate to sell a few books despite my lack of marketing skills:
Minding My Own Dharma is Looking for Short-Form, Yoga-Inspired Poetry
Keeping things simple:
I would love to curate well-crafted Yoga-inspired poems under 20 lines here on Minding My Own Dharma.
I will be publishing one-a-day, keeping an eye out for variety and authenticity*.
I prefer original photographs to accompany the poems.
If I turn down your submission, please don’t take it personally! …
Reconsidering a Religious Upbringing
The house is (mostly) clean now. I’ve moved acrylic paints and sewing frames upstairs to the new studio/”cabin” — as E. calls it. He’s nestled in now on my old purple couch watching war movies. It is odd to have the house to ourselves again. It’s not that we needed the space, but it does make it easier for us to be more conscious about how we use our time. No more television in the bedroom. Sleep hygiene is a thing. A thing I am not very good at observing.
It’s evening again — upside-down day…
Tanka Prose on Time
I look down at my fingers on the keyboard and have to remind myself that there is nothing here to be ashamed of. These twisting bones should be honored.
But it’s not easy.
For months I’ve been working on the manuscript for Impermanence, which is all about embracing change because there is nothing else real.
It’s as though most of us were immortal creatures swapped at birth, faeries misplaced among humans. Puzzled by our strange bodies. The cellulite that comes with menarche, the skin-tag-chaos of cells gone feral. …
On Aging, Creativity and Not Needing Permission
This morning feels familiar. A dog on the little rug near my feet. The coffee machine grinding in the other room. The delicious click-click of this cheap keyboard that is beginning to look like a mysterious, archaic tool.
The light is streaming in through the window already, but next week we move the clock backs and I will be writing in the dark again. I rather like that phrase: writing in the dark.
Yesterday I was thinking again about a drawing exercise I did so very long ago, but that has…
Tanka Prose on Depression and the Rain
They predicted snow last night, but this morning there’s just a soft rain. Still, Leonard doesn’t want to go out in it. Neither do I really, and I am a bit ashamed of that. What I wouldn’t give now to lie down on a green lawn and stare at a blue sky. To feel the sharp blades of grass on my arms, knowing I will itch for hours afterward.
Maybe I can get to the beach tomorrow. Maybe the wind will have died down but the sea will still be agitated from the…