Circle prayers come from the Celtic tradition. They are an ancient and beautiful way to seek God’s protection and blessing by creating a boundary around yourself. Within that boundary, you ask God to bring in all that you need while keeping harm and evil outside its bounds.
image credit: Keith Ewing | flickr creative commons
What I love about circle prayers is how flexible and personal they are. You can use them to address your concerns or desires, and they often reveal connections you hadn’t noticed before.
Let me show you an easy way to write your own circle prayer using a simple graphic organizer. Here’s how it works:
Draw a circle on a page. Inside the circle, write down all the things you want God to protect or bless you with. These could be concrete (like my family or my work) or abstract (like peace or courage). Ask yourself: What do I want to gather to myself?
Outside the circle, write the things you want to keep away—what you need protection from or want to banish. These could also be concrete or abstract.
To create your prayer, pair one thing from inside the circle with something outside it. Ask God to keep the circled element close and the uncircled element far away. For example, you might pray, “Keep peace near and anxiety afar.” Repeat this pairing process as many times as you like.
Want an example? Here’s the Circle Prayer I wrote this morning:
Circle me, Lord: Keep the light of hope alive in my heart; do not let fear snuff it out.
Circle me, Lord: Tend the spark of my creativity and purpose so that I may serve you; protect that spark from the cold winds of despair and overwhelm.
Circle us, Lord: So that I may seek, find, and serve Christ in all people, evicting no one from my care.
In the name of Jesus who came for us all: Amen.
This approach to writing a Circle Prayer can be used again and again, resulting in a new prayer every time that reflects your changing needs. Give it a try, and let me know how it goes! Leave a comment to tell me how this approach worked for you—and feel free to share your prayer in the comments. I’d love to read it.
As always, thank you for reading. And thank you for allowing me to walk this devotional path with you.
Once upon a time, there was a husband and a wife. They were very poor—so poor, in fact, that they were in danger of starving. Every day, they had less food in their pantry until one day, they had just enough flour left to make a single pancake.
“And no eggs,” the husband grumbled, staring into the empty pantry. “So it won’t even be a good pancake.”
The husband was a bit of an Eeyore, even in good times. But his wife was the opposite, always cheery, even when times were rough.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward their little clay oven in the yard. “We can pretend we have butter and syrup.”
“And blueberries?”
“And blueberries,” the wife agreed.
“I hate blueberries,” grumped the husband.
“Of course you do,” said the wife, who was used to his whole gloomy deal. She pretended to load her arms with invisible butter and syrup and blueberries—and powdered sugar, too, though she didn’t mention that because he would probably complain about the imaginary mess it would make.
Say this for the little clay oven: it made a fantastic pancake. Even the husband had to admit it. Toasty on the bottom, chewy in the middle, and just a hint of smokiness from the wood chunks they used as fuel. When the wife slid this pancake out of the oven, it looked perfect. You know how sometimes you can tell something will be delicious just by looking at it? Such was this pancake. One look and the husband forgot about eggs and syrup and everything else they lacked. He had to close his mouth so he didn’t drool.
Just then, a stranger walked up. He was even skinnier than they were and twice as bedraggled, with clothes so ragged he almost looked like a mummy.
“Something smells good!” he said. “What are you cooking?”
“Nothing,” the husband said, just as his wife lifted the pancake to show the stranger.
“Wow,” said the stranger. “That’s the prettiest pancake I have ever seen.”
“A dash of cornmeal,” the wife said. “That’s my secret.” She did not mention that this batch was made with imaginary cornmeal.
The husband said, “Well, thanks for stopping by,” hoping the stranger would take the hint and leave, but of course, he didn’t. He asked for a taste.
“Just a little piece,” he said. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten, and that pancake looks so good, and—”
“Get lost,” said the husband just as his wife tore off a big piece.
“We’ll share,” she said firmly, handing the stranger a chunk that looked, to the husband, like half the pancake.
The stranger popped the whole piece in his mouth, mumbling, “So good” as he was chewing, spraying out some crumbs—much to the husband’s dismay, who found it wasteful. Well, at least now the stranger would leave since they had nothing else to offer him.
But he didn’t. He stood there, shifting from foot to foot like he was waiting for something.
“We’re going inside,” said the husband, and since the stranger didn’t seem too sharp with hints, he added, “Don’t follow us.”
The stranger cocked his head, looking puzzled. “You’re not going to eat the other pancakes?”
The wife bent down to peek into the oven and gasped. Great, more pretending, thought the husband—until she started pulling out more pancakes, one after another, a dozen in all.
As the husband gawked, the stranger said, “Do me a favor—share them with your neighbors.”
The husband looked up then, but the stranger had vanished. In his place was a bowl of butter, a pitcher of honey, and a bushel of strawberries, which the husband secretly loved.
They did share the pancakes with their neighbors that day. Most of them, anyway. The husband insisted on holding a few back “so we’ll have something to eat tomorrow,” he explained to his wife.
The next morning, they meant to eat one leftover pancake each, saving the rest for later. But when you have been starving for a while, it’s hard to hold back in the presence of such a feast. Before they knew it, they were gorging themselves on the leftover pancakes and butter and honey.
“Knock, knock,” came a voice from the doorway. It was the stranger. He had to call out like this because the husband and wife didn’t have a door—just a door-shaped hole in the wall.
The husband and wife were both embarrassed to be caught stuffing their faces. Their hands were sticky with honey, their cheeks shiny with butter, and their mouths were full—and worse still, they had no pancakes left to offer the generous stranger. The wife swallowed her last bite and admitted this with regret.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the stranger. “You can make me a fresh one.”
“But we don’t have any ingredients,” the husband said just as his wife opened the pantry, which was overflowing with food. There was flour, cornmeal, honey, dried beans, pasta, and fresh eggs.
“Oh!” cried the wife, pressing her sticky hands to her shiny cheeks. She grabbed some ingredients and dashed out to start a fire in the little clay oven.
The husband remembered the stranger telling them to share with their neighbors. An idea crept into his head. “With all these ingredients, we could make enough pancakes for the whole village,” he said. “Though it would take all day with our little oven. I don’t suppose you could help us with that?”
The stranger raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
“A bigger oven, maybe indoors. And speaking of doors, we could use one.”
The stranger nodded. “On two conditions: share with your neighbors, and make me a pancake every morning.”
“Done,” said the husband. The stranger nodded and left through a door that had suddenly appeared.
Later that day, they carted a wagonload of fresh pancakes to the village square, handing them out to their surprised neighbors. They did the same the next day, and more neighbors showed up for the giveaway. The husband had a little fun flinging pancakes like frisbees. Morning after morning, the stranger woke them with a knock on the door to ask for a pancake, and each time, they would find the pantry magically restocked.
As they hauled their wagon to the square on the fourth or fifth day, the husband said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Mm?” said the wife.
“About the meaning of the word ‘share.’”
“Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
“Is it, though? For instance, if we sell these pancakes for a penny apiece, is that still sharing?”
“Um—”
“Think of all the time you spend cooking,” he went on, “and the time we spend bringing the pancakes to the square. Isn’t our time worth something? The penny would be for our time—the pancakes would still be free. Isn’t that still sharing?”
The wife wasn’t sure about this, but the husband seemed happy for once, so she thought, well, why the heck not? A penny for a pancake was still a great deal, and sure enough, the villagers thought so, too. The husband and wife sold out by midday and returned to their hut with a sock full of coins.
So it went, day after day. The stranger woke them with a knock and asked for a pancake. While the wife cooked, the husband made a new request. That’s how the oven turned into a factory, and their hut became a grand chateau, and the pancakes went from one penny to a quarter and finally to $2.87 apiece because taxes and insurance on their growing pancake empire were no joke.
Soon, they had their own brand of pancake mix in stores across the land and were in talks with a television network about a cooking show starring the wife. In the village, people quit their other jobs and let their fields grow wild to work in the pancake factory. The husband thought up a plan to pay the villagers in pancakes and “batter bucks” they could spend at the factory store, which stocked everything a villager could want.
Through it all, the stranger kept showing up every morning, asking for a single fresh pancake and reminding them to share with their neighbors. Honestly, it was getting pretty annoying. For one thing, if the stranger was so magical, why couldn’t he just make a pancake appear for himself? For another, if he knew how much they paid in taxes, he might ease up on the “share with your neighbor” routine. The husband was pretty sure he had singlehandedly funded the village’s new square. And for a third, the stranger came by so early. Every day, his knocking woke them up. Seven days a week!
“Honestly, it’s fine,” said the wife one morning as the stranger knocked and her husband grumbled. “I’ll just go make him a pancake.”
“Enough is enough,” the husband muttered. “We’ve got to set some boundaries.”
The stranger looked surprised when the husband opened the door in his bathrobe. He looked even more surprised when the husband said, “Listen, I’ve got good news. They sell our pancakes in cellophane wrappers at gas stations now. You can get one anything you want—which means you don’t have to come to our door at the butt-crack of dawn ever again.”
The stranger stepped back. “Okay, then,” he said. “I won’t.”
“Okay, then,” the husband replied, feeling pleased with himself. But when he went to close the door, he found it was gone. In its place was a door-shaped hole.
“No,” he whispered.
Yes: He turned around and found himself in his old, shabby hut. The pantry door swung open, revealing a single bowl of withered blueberries. From his bedroom came a sound he had never heard from his cheery wife—a raw wail.
He spun around to look for the stranger, only to see his entire village silently trooping toward his hut.
On election night in 2016, I went to bed early, believing Clinton had won. But I woke up to a different reality.
Not knowing what else to do, I went to campus to teach my morning class, a first-year seminar with all female students.
As I walked into Jordan Hall, I felt dazed. What could I say to these young women? Climbing the stairs, I passed a sign I’d seen a thousand times but never stopped to read. This time, I stopped. It was the core values statement for the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences:
Think for Yourself and Act Wisely and Well in the World
As students of the liberal arts, we cultivate as fully as possible the legacy of human thought, imagination, creativity, and research; observe nature; confront and evaluate important theories that shape our understanding of the world and how to care for it; figure out how societies, our own and those of others, work and can be improved; weigh the costs and benefits of modern human life to the individual and the planet; seek to grasp and reduce the sources of human hatred and conflict; aim to understand and strengthen what inspires human cooperation; explore the workings of the human mind and body; unknot claims of teachers, politicians, advertisers, scientists, preachers, columnists, and your roommate; ponder history from the earliest epochs to the unfolding present; investigate the mechanisms of the cosmos, from the atom to the stars; delve into the past experiences of our own and other societies, as well as the current news; make ourselves at home in other cultures; make those from other cultures at home among ourselves; see the interplay between our beliefs about the natural world and our beliefs about religion, politics, and culture; search out purpose, ponder the meaning of life, scrutinize the human heart, weigh conscience; discover the sweep of living systems, from microbes to biomes; learn to account for ourselves in a moral world that is neither black nor white; engage in a careful search for truth; know the ways of money and the nature of work; wrestle with ideas about God; fathom the relations between technology and human life; raise children, our own and those of others; consider the well-being of future generations; appreciate the beauty and uses of mathematics; forge agreements with loved ones, friends, and enemies; engage ourselves in the principles, purposes, and practice of public life.
My God, that’s stirring. It makes me want to run through a brick wall for the liberal arts. I was still thinking about it as I walked into class that morning. Normally a chatty group, the students were silent until one said, “I wasn’t sure if we would have class today. A lot of professors canceled.”
“Have you ever heard of Woody Guthrie?” I asked, surprising myself. I told them he was a folk singer in the ‘40s. On his guitar, he wrote the words, This machine kills fascists.
Guthrie wasn’t violent, I explained; he wasn’t talking about murder. He was talking about the power of music, art, beauty, and truth—antidotes to the worst impulses of our fellow humans.
I told them about the sign by the stairs. This, I said—this class, this university, our whole educational system—is our machine that kills fascists. It’s just as battered as Guthrie’s guitar, but it can still play a damn fine song.
And now, here we are again, on the eve of another election. The sign is still by the stairs. I’m still teaching first-year seminar. And my college, along with our students, is still playing a song. It can be hard to hear over the rising howl of fascism, but it’s there if you listen for it.
This year, may our nation choose the song over the howl. May it be a song of truth, hope, and all our best impulses. And may we sing it together.
You might have heard of Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule. If you haven’t, the idea is simple: To master any field, you need to practice for 10,000 hours.
Gladwell based his rule on research by psychologist Anders Ericsson, but he left out a crucial part. Simply put, Ericsson’s formula for mastery is 10,000 hours of focused practice plus good coaching.
How does this apply to teaching writing? Your students will improve with consistent, frequent practice. But they’ll improve even more with your guidance, including instruction and feedback.
image credit: “backyard writers” by Stephanie Young Merzel | flickr creative commons
Now, don’t freak out—I’m not saying you need to give feedback on every little thing they write. That would annoy/overwhelm your students (imagine a tennis coach giving feedback after every swing. Dude, too much!) and lead to teacher burnout.
I’m also not suggesting you assign more long essays. Instead, try incorporating short writing tasks early in the semester. Most writing issues will appear in a short assignment just as clearly as in a long one.
Here’s why a short writing task early in the semester can be beneficial:
Practice makes progress. Students get the practice they need to improve as writers.
You can get to know your students as humans—and as writers when you diagnose some of their strengths and writing issues.
You can give efficient feedback. It’s an opportunity to provide good coaching quickly without overloading yourself.
Some Possible Assignments
Response to Syllabus: Ask students to write about 250 words on their worries, wonderings, and hopes related to the class. Encourage them to be informal—no need for an intro, conclusion, or citations. Just aim for clarity and honesty.
Your turn. What short writing task do you assign early in the semester? Share one in the comments below—and feel free to borrow or adapt any of the assignments you see here. Let’s share and learn from each other, just like we want our students to do.
Old Atoms
Matter is eternal. Can’t be created or destroyed, only—
what’s the term?—rearranged in space.
The scientific principle of same shit, different day.
Which is a fancy way of saying that matter
doesn’t matter. What matters
is vanishing:
a breath, a birdcall.
The Israelites got sacked by one
ancient empire after another, atomized and scattered,
and yet they praised God in bewilderment:
You could have destroyed us, and you didn’t!
You could have died in your sleep,
but here is dawn in the blue pines.
Listen:
Every breath is borrowed.
Every birdcall goodbye.
Every year, the MFA program at Butler University hosts a publishing panel. This year, they invited Kristen Miller (Managing Editor at Sarabande), Renée Jarvis (agent at Triangle House), and Ed Park (freelance prose editor, formerly at Penguin).
Chris Forhan, director of the MFA program, fielding the first question: “Why the fuck is there a traffic cone in here?”
Since you couldn’t be there, I took notes. Here are some highlights. ENJOY
Jarvis: “Understand what’s authentic about your work and hang onto that.” Don’t shift your voice to find an agent or please the market. “Authenticity radiates off the page.” When you write from your heart, you have a better chance than somebody who is trying to beat the market.
Miller: When a poet submits a manuscript to Sarabande, it helps if the poems have been published elsewhere “because it shows a connection to community.” Not so much a measure of quality, but a measure of engagement with community. “Knowing you’ve been making these connections . . . lets us know you’ll be a partner with us in . . . getting your work out into the world.”
Jarvis: “I read on the macro-level on submissions. My micro-reading [with a careful eye toward writing quality and style and detail] happens with the query letter.” Good writing in the query letter helps her feel confident that the writing will be good in the manuscripts. “Once I sign someone on, that’s when I get down to the nitty-gritty” of line-editing the manuscript.
Miller: When you’re vetting a small or independent press, ask if the press is professionally distributed. “Distributed presses are going to get a wider reach for your book.” Also look for the following red flags, which can indicate a predatory press:
The publisher wants the rights to your book but requires you to make pre-sales before they will publish it.
The publisher wants you to sign a non-disclosure agreement (a sign that there is something they don’t want people finding out about).
Jarvis: Here are some questions she keeps in mind when she is considering a manuscript:
Do I have a game plan for how to improve this book?
What editors could I send this to?
Is this something I can pitch as refreshing and somehow different than other books on the market?
Do I think this writer has another book in them?
Miller: Regarding contests–The contest judge will determine the finalists and the contest winner, but the Sarabande editors read all the finalists’ work carefully with an eye toward signing additional writers. Sarabande will often acquire one or two additional books per contest beyond the winner. (Personal note: This is how my first book was published. I was a runner-up for a contest with Black Lawrence Press. I didn’t win the prize but they offered me a contract.)
Jarvis: Some tips on finding the right agent: Go beyond agency websites. “Get access to their taste however you can.” Find out which books they’ve put out; find out what they’re drawn to. Follow them on social media. Read profiles of agents in magazines. Look at Publisher’s Marketplace to see the deals agents are making. Also search #manuscriptwishlist on Twitter. (Miller added: Consider subscribing to Duotrope, which has added agent profiles.)
Park: “I want to be writing something every day, and I want to do it without distractions.” Put up barriers to things that will distract you so you can “do the work. If the work is not good, it’s because you’re not doing it enough.”
Miller: Try not to parse rejection letters too much. Unless you get an actual personal note from an editor, a rejection is a template that is sent to thousands of writers. Don’t take it personally.
I used to throw my food scraps in the garbage, thinking that I was “basically composting.” I mean, those scraps break down into soil eventually, even if they’re in a landfill, right?
Composting is the process of turning organic material like food scraps into rich fertilizer. Goodbye, methane. Hello, black gold. By composting your food scraps, you can slay the devil and replace him with a fertility goddess.
On the other hand, if you’re anything like me — the least handy man on the planet — you can look up a curbside compost collection service. Not only will a truck swing by your place on the regular to pick up your buckets, but they’ll also usually accept items you can’t compost at home, like chicken bones and dairy products.
If you’re in Indiana, check out this interactive map to find an “organics collection service” near you. (I use Earth Mama myself. 12/10, would recommend.)
The Impact of Composting
It seems like there are a million things we’re supposed to be doing for the planet, I know. It can be hard to decide what to do when all those things are presented as equally impactful options. But they aren’t equally impactful. Turning off the lights when you leave the room, for example, is nothing compared to giving up your car.
The problem is that most of the super-impactful options are hard because they feel like a sacrifice. See, for instance, giving up driving, flying, and eating meat.
You know what doesn’t feel like a sacrifice, though? Composting. It’s an “easy thing to do that can have a big impact,” according to Sally Brown, a professor of environmental and forest sciences at the University of Washington, because you’re subtracting methane and adding rich soil.
