Thursday, June 28, 2012

Poem of the Week: Marc A. Drexler

Marc A. Drexler         
   
2nd Grader Killed by Stray Bullet         


children in
certain neighborhoods
should know better than to
sit by a window
& if
2nd Grader Killed by Stray Bullet
had the luxury of
electricity
maybe she would have sat by a lamp but
2nd Grader Killed by Stray Bullet
needed light for her
homework.

just 50 blocks from
2nd Grader Killed by Stray Bullet
us congress enacts price supports
for crime lords called
war on drugs
so a few pennies worth of
crack cocaine commands
$dollars$dollars$dollars$
to fund campaign contributions.

in rich neighborhoods people just
buy the shit but
poor addicts need
armed robbery or purse snatching
to slake their jones or they join
gangs that sell it to get their
cut. plenty of money to go around
well worth the risk &
she's small so
2nd Grader Killed by Stray Bullet's
casket won't cost much.

-Marc A. Drexler

 
Used by permission.    
  
I don't like hierarchy. I don't like labels. I formally resigned from society when I was twelve. I believe in collectivism, an organizational structure where we all are equal. I worked for 14 years at the Maryland Food Collective. I am currently a member of the Earth Collective, a group of roughly 7 billion people who make all the decisions on how we interact with our planet.
     
Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Week widely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.    

Split This Rock
www.splitthisrock.org
info@splitthisrock.org
202-787-5210

Monday, June 25, 2012

From the Festival: William O'Daly's Tribute to Sam Hamill

Sam Hamill


William O'Daly's Tribute to Sam Hamill
Split This Rock Poetry Festival, 2012

I was an 18-year old college freshman at U.C. Santa Barbara when, in the spring of 1970, I met Sam Hamill. It wasn’t until that fall, however, that Sam and I sat over coffee in the student union and got acquainted. It took little time for me to recognize that in Sam, I was experiencing a phenomenon that was all too rare. Sam lived as a true individual, a determined and conscientious poet and activist, and a force of nature.

Today, all of this remains evident and true, defining who Sam is and has been for as long as I’ve called him my friend. In addition to his public accomplishments, of which you all are aware, Sam was a devoted husband to his late wife, Gray, and is a loving father to daughter, Eron; a darned good cook and gardener; a fan of jazz, blues, and country music; a dog lover; and when granted a little time and the company of an accomplice or three, a real player on the golf course.

Sam Hamill remains a vital spokesperson for the global community of poetry and for our inalienable right of self-determination—by what he values, by his words and his actions, and above all, by their confluence. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to stand beside that creative river for over 40 years and feel the uncommon shiver of what’s real.

Here’s to you, Sam!

A Simple Gift

Yes, dear and oldest friend, every fall 
the wounded saguaro fill with rain
from the Gulf of Mexico,
their priestly shadows suffer blizzards
that tore through the bad old days, years
the highway conjured a simpler horizon.
Do you remember how the bald tires
blew? Not in the whitest heat of Zion
summer, but in our unlikely return—
rain drumming Me and Bobby McGhee
against the windshield, singing Creeley
from the Great Salt Lake to the distant sea.
Perhaps it’s true, where coyote groans
in the poisoned canyon, a drifting road
calls our bones. Clouds tumble, a paycheck
arrives, we set out for other mountains,
under cold beasts orphaned by Orion.

Dawn rolled across the desert, over us
camped beside the unknowing flowing—
the beautiful Williams River. We boiled old
grounds over a twiggy fire, and drove all day
with the river’s breath and pulse, to reclaim
ways of seeing long since lost. Broken down,
the valves smoking miles shy of Eureka,
we waited beside the highway for help
or the law, and shared the last can
of Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee. Maybe it’s true,
we’ve had enough blistering sun,
perched in this imaginary mecca
that neither forgives nor grieves.

Friend, even in the early days
we knew the poets who blazed trails
and fought exile would be freed only by
death. McGrath has left the old high road
for the hieroglyphic fire, Kenneth’s temple bell 
no longer rings in the ears of swallows, 
Art Blakey’s metalflake snares dance 
only in the heart’s garden. The garden’s 
heart longs to break into sixteenth notes 
Mr. Coltrane used to blow to reach his heaven, 
a real gone, deep-fired perfection. 
And the day! how it frees itself 
from the light that bears us in its belly, 
in an insignificant meal of muffins 
and eggs, in the solitary life built 
of renga, thick cedar, buddha dog 
and his shameless nature. An egg 
cradled in the hand remains an egg, 
whether a dying chick or yolk 
that blooms in the pan—it’s the song heard 
by a deaf mute and the fear retold 
in ten thousand generations,
the indifference of the ocean 
that balances the inner ear.

The road rolls out before us, 
past the beet packing plant 
and the dry beds of Utah, 
to places we have never been. 
Let us go, in this single cyclic gift 
that cannot be withheld: our song.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Poem of the Week: Sheila Black

                   
Sheila Black        
   
Rosary for my Brace       

The brace was metal, and it fastened around the ankles.

Outside in the street there was the beggar with elephantiasis; there was
the leper, the neighbor with eyes milky blind,

and in the book the child with the hand reaching out for the water.
Everyone spoke in code, everyone lied. There were the

invisible hospitals. There were the poor who could be scattered
like lice. There were the lanterns made of tin cans, which transformed

a light to lace. There was the sharp knife for the mangoes,
the machete for the coconut. Coffee trees grew in the garden,

red blood flesh with the hard bean underneath, green-tighter,
bitter, and the smell of the almond trees, and the carp

that swam under the fountains. There was Flora with the scar
bisecting her face, and the wide stitches along it

like a child would make. And the bottle of white liquor that
burned. And the doctor who smelled of tobacco. And the

boots with iron bars along the bottom. The leather boots that
smelled of sweat. And there was the doll that was like a

pretty girl. Golden hair, stiff limbs, and bird-button eyes.
And there was the world of the night and the moon and the

dog star. And the smell of jasmine and a frozen dust. A bicycle
riding along a moonlit track. Going nowhere, going to

the ocean. The beach where Einstein proved the Theory of
Relativity. Which meant there were many rooms and many

angles. Which meant that the clock, too, lied. That I could be here
and there at the same time. Except I couldn't, except I kept

falling. Back under the mosquito net. Back inside the moon tiger
And the house ticking, ticking. And the wire corset and the

steel brace whose function was to correct and straighten.

 
-Sheila Black

 
Used by permission.    


Sheila Black is the author of House of Bone and Love/Iraq (both CW Press). She recently co-edited with poets Jennifer Bartlett and Mike Northen Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability (Cinco Puntos Press). A third collection Wen Kroy is forthcoming from Dream Horse Press where it received the 2011 Orphic Prize in Poetry. She is a 2012 Witter Bynner Fellow in Poetry, selected by Philip Levine.
   
Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Week widely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.    

Split This Rock
www.splitthisrock.org
info@splitthisrock.org
202-787-5210

Monday, June 18, 2012

From the Festival: Martín Espada's Tribute to Sam Hamill

Before there was Split This Rock, Sam Hamill brought us Poets Against the War. On Thursday March, 22nd, Sarah Browning,  MartínEspada, and Marilyn Nelson came together at the 2012 festival for a tribute to the man himself -- poet, activist, fearless leader, influential editor. A model for the poet as public citizen. 

Below, find the transcript of  MartínEspada's introduction to, in his words,"my compañero, my hero, Sam Hamill."


Sam Hamill honoring June Jordan at the 2012 festival kick-off


MartínEspada:
Poetry saved Sam Hamill. Poetry saved him from a life of violence, self-destruction and incarceration.This first poem is dedicated to him.

Blasphemy
            For Sam Hamill

Let the blasphemy be spoken: poetry can save us,
not the way a fisherman pulls the drowning swimmer
into his boat, not the way Jesus, between screams,
promised life everlasting to the thief crucified beside him
on the hill, but salvation nevertheless.

Somewhere a convict sobs into a book of poems
from the prison library, and I know why
his hands are careful not to break the brittle pages.

***

Allow me to introduce Sam Hamill.
Sam was born in 1942 or 1943 to unknown parents.  Adopted and raised in Utah, he was beaten and abused, a runaway, a petty thief, in trouble with the law, in and out of jail. 
In the moving poem, “Plain Dumb Luck,” he writes of being “huddled in a cell in Fredonia, Arizona/ rolling cigarettes from a Bull Durham pouch/ locked up for the crime of being fourteen and homeless.”  A sheriff tells him to “Go home, son,” but “Home was the road/ for a kid whose other home was hell./ I’d rather steal than taste that belt again./ I stole.”
And yet, by poem’s end, forty years later, the poet concludes that he is “the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive.” It was his “dumb luck” to discover poetry.  From the practice of poetry everything else would flow.
At City Lights bookstore in San Francisco, there was more “dumb luck:” a serendipitous encounter with poet, translator and critic Kenneth Rexroth, who would become Sam’s first mentor.  As Sam recalls:
I was fifteen years old, and I was smoking a lot of heroin and trying to be cool, man, and I really loved poetry. And Kenneth convinced me that destroying myself was not really the best possible solution, and that I needed to look at the world's literature, and not just my own life, in order to be hip, if you will. So he had a huge influence on what became of me thereafter.
What became of Sam Hamill?

In the words of Hayden Carruth, “No one—I mean no one—has done the momentous work of presenting poetry better than Sam Hamill. His editing and publishing, his criticism and translations, his own very strong and beautiful poems have been making a difference in American culture for many years. What a wealth of accomplishment!”

Sam has published over 40 books. His collections of poetry include Destination Zero, Gratitude, Dumb Luck, Measured by Stone, and Almost Paradise.  His essay collections include A Poet's Work and Avocations. He taught himself classical Chinese and Japanese, and is the leading translator of poetry from these ancient languages. His translations include Narrow Road to the Interior and Other Writings of Basho, Crossing the Yellow River, The Poetry of Zen, and the Tao Te Ching.

He has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Woodrow Wilson Foundation, and the Mellon Fund. In 1973, he co-founded the legendary Copper Canyon Press, serving as editor there for more than thirty years, publishing Rexroth, Carruth, McGrath, the posthumous works of Neruda.

When Sam began his Zen practice and declared himself a conscientious objector, he took a “bodhisattva vow” to become a peacemaker. (Sam is a tough pacifist. I used to tell him that he put the “fist” in “pacifist.”)

Small wonder, then, that Sam felt  (and I quote) “overcome by nausea” when he was invited to participate in a White House symposium called, “Poetry and the American Voice,” hosted by First Lady Laura Bush. The symposium, set for February 2003, was cancelled when word got out of Sam’s plan to gather anti-war poems for presentation to the First Lady.

Never tell Sam: Don’t say that. He fought back by founding Poets Against the War. PAW collected, posted and archived more than 20,000 poems and statements against war. As Sam puts it, “Never before in recorded history have so many poets spoken in a single chorus.” He also edited the anthology Poets Against the War, published by The Nation Books.

In the foreword to that extraordinary anthology, Sam Hamill writes:

Can (thousands of) poems inhibit this or any administration planning a war? It is only one step among many. But it is an important step, as each is. We join physicians against the war, teachers against the war, farmers against the war, and others. Poets Against the War helped bring about hundreds of poetry readings and discussions around the world while compiling a document of historic proportion. And when our critics on the right suggest that poetry might somehow divorce itself from politics, we say, ‘Read the Greeks, read the classical Chinese; tell it to Dante, Chaucer, Milton or Longfellow. Tell it to Whitman, Dickinson or Hughes. Tell it to García Lorca, to Joseph Brodsky or to the Chinese poets living in exile in our country…A government is a government of words, and when those words are used to mislead, to instill fear or to invite silence, it is the duty of every poet to speak fearlessly and clearly.

Albert Camus wrote: “henceforth, the only honorable course will be to stake everything on a formidable gamble: that words are more powerful than munitions. Sam Hamill has become the living embodiment of this principle. He and PAW defined a culture of conscience in this country. When future generations want to know the truth of these times, they will not turn to Colin Powell’s testimony at the United Nations. They will turn to the words of Sam Hamill. They will read Poets Against the War.

Sam is a true visionary. He sees through ancient eyes, “fearlessly and clearly.”  His translation of the poem, “Song of the War Wagons” by Tu Fu, written in China more than 1200 years ago, speaks to us of war today:

We’ve shed a sea of blood.
Still the emperor wants more.
East of the mountains, a thousand villages,
ten thousand villages, turn to bitter weeds…
Our boys lie under the weeds.

Being right is necessary but not sufficient.  In 2003, when he founded PAW, Sam was right about the “sea of blood” and the “emperor” who wanted more; but he also had the integrity to take action, regardless of consequences. Ultimately, Sam Hamill is the kind of visionary who rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.  This is from his poem, “Ars Poetica:”

We go down to the sea and set sail
For a world beyond war,
            knowing
we will never find it.
            We are not heroes.
We sail The Justice and The Mercy
because these boats need rowing.

The time has come for us to stand up and express our gratitude for all that rowing.  Please welcome my compañero, my hero, Sam Hamill.

Poem of the Week: Ellen Hagan


       
   
Before Your Arrival      


the ones who brought your father here, come. Bring
with them whole almonds, dried berries & clementines
wrapped in cloth. Their clothes & smart shoes too.

They come looking for the place I've taken your father.  
Looking for the New York City that could rival home.
Your Abba loves the East Village, its graffiti, trash
& all the languages on all the streets.  On 14th & 1st,
we visit the Phillipines. Elvie's Turo Turo.

But this trip, he wants to see more. So, 
we travel to Little Philippines, Queens, 69th 
off the 7 train, off the 7 the whole of Queens
opens wide for us. Travel agents & whole-
sale, send anything back for cheap, travel
for cheap, return, return. We buy OK
magazines by the handful for gossip
Tagalog with English subtitles, glossy
photos, Pacquiao, his chiseled grin, everywhere.  

And we eat. Krystal's where they serve
marinated pork belly, sinigang na baboy,
kare-kare, pancit bihon, & lumpiang sariwa,
I listen close to it all. Deep fried ruffle fat,
poolee noodles with shrimp, milkfish.  
Your Abba fake orders pork blood stew
but I am sure I would eat anything here
because this is how much I trust the two 
who brought your father up in the world.

We eat sing-sing & pork in tamarind soup.
This is how to say snack in Tagalog: Merienda,
Merienda is snack. This is how to say ice-cream
in Tagalog: halo-halo, halo-halo
is ice-cream. This is how to leave your country.  
Don't look back. You will only see the islands 
melting away. Halo-halo.  This is how to say snack in tagalog.  
Merienda. This is how to feel of one place & of one more.  

Back home, we sit, get caught up. I read 
about mansions in Manila, how to make millions,
facelifts & silken hair, red lips, muscles & beauty.
In Tagalog, I muddle through, while your Abba
laughs, translates, translations get muddled too.
This is how to raise a baby in two places at once, & how 
it feels to live and move in two worlds. At once.
 
-Ellen Hagan

 
Used by permission.    


Ellen Hagan is a writer, performer, and educator. Her poetry and essays have appeared in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies, including her most recent publications in: Spaces Between Us, and She Walks in Beauty, edited by Caroline Kennedy.  Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2004 and 2008.  She has received grants from The Kentucky Governor's School for the Arts, The Kentucky Foundation for Women, and held residencies at The Hopscotch House and Louisiana ArtWorks. Ellen holds a MFA in Fiction from The New School University in New York. A proud Kentucky writer, she is member of the Affrilachian Poets, Conjwomen, and co-founder of the girlstory collective. Crowned, her debut collection of poems was published by Sawyer House Press in 2010.      

Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Week widely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.    

Split This Rock
www.splitthisrock.org
info@splitthisrock.org
202-787-5210

Friday, June 15, 2012

Save a tree! We're not sending snail mail, so please give today!



Dear Friend,

When Venus Thrash took the stage for her featured reading at Split This Rock Poetry Festival 2012, she did so for Trayvon Martin. In a black sweatshirt, hood-up, she approached the podium and let her truth speak.  

In fact, 500 of you approached microphones, conference tables, the steps of the Supreme Court to let your truth speak--for Trayvon Martin, for June Jordan and Adrienne Rich, for yourselves and for each other.

ADSC
Alexis De Veaux schools the Supreme Court
  
Thanks to your spirits, words, ideas, and hope, we all left the 2012 festival energized and excited to continue bringing essential works of provocation and witness to the forefront of American poetry.

Can you help us reach our June goal of $5,000 with a gift today? No snail mail! We're saving trees. Just click here to give.

Thank you for this electric weekend. I am back [home] and thinking so much of June's work and what is possible. What is possible is so much! Here we go!
            -Solmaz Sharif
 
Split This Rock programs are building on that energy and flourishing. We continue to bring the Sunday Kind of Love reading series to local audiences and have added workshops throughout the fall and winter with such groundbreaking poets as Tim SeiblesPamela Uschuk, and Jericho Brown.

Sonia & Alice
Sonia Sanchez & Alice Walker catch the spirit
 
We are also getting ready to re-design our website to bring you more resources, such as a database of the Poems of the Week searchable by theme, an online bookshelf, an events calendar, and more photos and video! Please let us know how we can design the site to serve you and meet your needs.

You can help with a gift today! Just click here!

The panel on Persistent Voices (poets lost to AIDS) was, like the anthology, life-changing. One of the most meaningful moments of my life.
              -Daniel Nathan Terry
  
Split This Rock's youth programs are on fire, too. On June 2, for the first-time, we brought the Chicago-based high school poetry slam competition, Louder Than a Bomb, to the area. Twelve high school poetry slam teams from the District, Maryland, and Virginia competed in a day-long competition, participated in workshops, and connected with others from across the river or outside their neighborhoods.

And now, poetry clubs are sprouting in high schools throughout the area, as young people discover the power of poetry to tell their stories.

DCYST
At the festival's youth open mic

This is to say: Split This Rock can't do it without you. Your support carries the movement we have built together -- and it is paying off.

As Split This Rock grows, please consider a tax-deductible donation to continue the visionary, public role of poetry and help us reach our summer goal of $5,000.  
 
With gratitude and in solidarity, 

Alicia, Jonathan & Sarah --  
On behalf of the whole Split This Rock team 

ps - You can still send a check! Make it out to "Split This Rock" and send to:

Split This Rock
1112 16th Street, NW
Suite 600
Washington, DC 20036

Thank you!

Split This Rock
www.SplitThisRock.org
            202-787-5210       info@splitthisrock.org

Monday, June 11, 2012

Poem of the Week: Arhm Choi

                   
Arhm Choi     
   
How Manifestos Are Made    


If I fail my mouth this story plays again.

Back home he yanks mama's mouth
round into screams, burns
her vocal cords to sing the real blues
of men who can't stand to be exposed
so stare the world down in rage
and red, not the toothbrush too hard red
but the red of knuckles busted by teeth,
teeth ground down into grit,
eardrums that vomit
sticky one note dirges red.
She leaves

her nightingales stranded in the winter
of his cold cocktail gins,
croaks out a song
when he bends her neck,
bruises a darker green
as the skin rushes together
in his fist,
a bouquet crumbling
in the relentless boil
of a man never satisfied
by just one song.

If I fail my mouth this story plays again
can't close, closet, or cease.
I must be the skip in the disk.
Be the fracture that makes the needle jump out
and land on anything but this.
   

-Arhm Choi

 
Used by permission.    


Arhm Choi is a poet from Ann Arbor, MI, with a MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. She has competed nationally at the Youth Poetry Slam and has been published in The Canadian Theater Review, Peal, Otoliths, and Scholars & Rogues. She has taught writing workshops at the Neutral Zone, Jackson Community College, Youth Alive! in Detroit, and the YWCA.     
Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Week widely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.    

Split This Rock
www.splitthisrock.org
info@splitthisrock.org
202-787-5210

Friday, June 1, 2012

Poem of the Week: Kathy Engel

Kathy Engel    
   
The Return (Etheree)  


Six
times ten
Bison back
to Wolf Point, not
a hoof on that tan
pasture for one hundred
forty years, only bleached skulls --
badlands, "my brothers and sisters"
Tote Gray Hawk said, first rust colored calf --
the healing, ancestor to ancestor.  


-Kathy Engel
 
Used by permission.    

Kathy Engel is a lifelong poet/activist/teacher. She has co founded numerous political/cultural/educational organizations including MADRE, The Hayground School, East End Women in Black, Riptide Communications, and most recently, with Alexis De Veaux, Lyrical Democracies. She is Visiting Assistant Arts Professor in NYU's Tisch School of the Arts Art and Public Policy Program. Recent poems appear in Beloit Poetry Journal/Split This Rock Chapbook, 2012 and The Mom Egg.  Engel was a featured poet at Split This Rock Poetry Festival: Poems of Provocation & Witness 2012. 

Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Week widely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.    

Split This Rock
www.splitthisrock.org
info@splitthisrock.org
202-787-5210

The Body is Not an Apology: A Workshop with Sonya Renee

The Body is Not an Apology: 
A Workshop with Sonya Renee 

sonyarenee  
Saturday June 16, 2012
2-4pm 

1112 16th St. NW
Suite 600
Washington, DC 20036

$25.00
Register Online Now!

Scholarships Available
(Please contact Program Assistant, Alicia Gregory:
gregory@splitthisrock.org)

Registration deadline: June 15th 

In the summer of 2011 after years of secret shame and trauma about her biggest body insecurity, her hair, performance poet, activist and transformational leader Sonya Renee decided to do something RADICAL to unapologetically step out of shame and into self love. The Body Is Not An Apology workshop uses Sonya's personal experience, writing activities, anecdotes and experiential discussion to help participants begin to untangle the narrative of shame and fear and step into radical unapologetic self love.

**Participants will engage in a few movement-based activities.

Poet, Activist and transformational leader Sonya Renee believes in the life shifting power of art. She is a National and International poetry slam champion. Believing that art is a vehicle for social change and personal transformation, Sonya is founder of the The Body is Not An Apology, an international movement focused on radical self love and body empowerment. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Off Our Backs and Spokenword Revolution Redux. Her first poetry collection, A Little Truth on Your Shirt was published by GirlChild Press in June of 2010. Ms. Renee has been seen on HBO, BET, MTV, CNN, and the Oxygen Network.  She continues to perform, speak and facilitate workshops globally and recently became a member of the Split This Rock Board of Directors. 

June Sunday Kind of Love: Jill Leininger & Sonya Renee!

Sunday Kind of Love
featuring
Jill Leininger
  & Sonya Renee
    
JL 
sonyarenee 

Sunday June 17, 2012
5-7 pm

Busboys and Poets 
2021 14th St. NW
Washington, DC


Hosted by Sarah Browning 
& Katy Richey
$5
As always, open mic follows! 


Co-Sponsored by Busboys and Poets 
& Split This Rock  

For more information:
info@splitthisrock.org   
202-387-POET


A 2011 Lambda Literary Fellow, Jill Leininger's poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in cream city reviewPoetry International, and the Harvard Review Online. Her chapbook "The Way I'll Leave You" was selected by Mark Doty as the 2011 Bloom Poetry Chapbook, to be published this fall. "Roof Picnic Skies, New York," a sequence of prose poems, is also available from dancing girl press.
  
Poet, Activist and transformational leader Sonya Renee believes in the life shifting power of art. She is a National and International poetry slam champion. Believing that art is a vehicle for social change and personal transformation, Sonya is founder of the The Body is Not An Apology, an international movement focused on radical self love and body empowerment. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Off Our Backs and Spokenword Revolution Redux. Her first poetry collection, A Little Truth on Your Shirt was published by GirlChild Press in June of 2010. Ms. Renee has been seen on HBO, BET, MTV, CNN, and the Oxygen Network.  She continues to perform, speak and facilitate workshops globally and recently became a member of the Split This Rock Board of Directors.  

Split This Rock
www.splitthisrock.org
info@splitthisrock.org
202-787-5210