Star Sleep

I woke up outside shy of 4:00 a.m., cold and in the dark, to a chorus of wolves yipping, barking and howling far off in the distance.

I decided to rekindle the fire I lit before going to sleep. I pushed back my warm covers to a barrage of cool air hitting my face. I poked at the embers, seasoned their glow with leaves and twigs, then threw on three more logs and breathed life back into the fire that sparked, snarled and snapped back at me. Dan slid off his side of our air mattress to take a leak. Climbing back into bed, I pulled our flannel comforter over my head, peaking out enough to allow a breath of cold air in, and a small window out to see the flames, which roared sideways in my direction like a woman’s fiery orange hair come alive. An owl in the trees nearby who whooed and the loon’s wails echoed, haunting the lake until dawn. When I awoke a few hours later, the birds were chirping, a few Blue Jays squawking, but it was the sound of the busy bees buzzing to and fro, choosing their flower, buzzing off into the trees surrounding me, that filled my ears. I spotted their hive high up in a birch tree.

We were at our cottage, and the night before was calm and serene. I raked out our fire pit to create a flat surface, then laid two logs down parallel, filling the space between them with leaves, twigs and bark, arranging my kindling down across the two logs like a bridge. The fire caught beautifully. Dan fished off the dock with Penelope and Elyse, and I swam with Ariel and a neighbour as the sun sunk into the shadowed hills. By the time the swimming was done and the stars were out, one log laid nestled against the other like a burning work of art. We sat with the girls, working on a crossword together by the fire, roasting oversized maple marshmallows. Finally, bedtime for the kids, but I wasn’t ready to leave the perfect fire and still night, not yet. Dan ushered the girls into their beds, and I sent him a text.

Dan. I’m super excited. Tonight’s the night.

I looked up from the fire to find him standing at the window of our screened-in porch above me.

“I know what you want to do,” he called down, and I saw him roll his eyes, a slight shake of his head with a smile across his lips. Dan has an uncanny ability to read my mind. He knew EXACTLY what I wanted to do that night.

In the few days before, I had one of my BIG Ideas. The last time I had a big idea, we ended up selling our home and traveling around the world as a family. This new big idea revolved around a potential future book project for which I was compiling a list of experiences that intrigued me. Not a bucket list—exactly—more of a loving living life list. One of the experiences was to sleep under the stars.

Once I get an idea in my head, I have a strong desire to carry it out. Dan barely resisted the idea of sleeping outside the cottage all-night, though his initial text reply was: I don’t care to. With the temperature dropping to twelve degrees Celsius overnight, I would need his warmth and feel safer tucked into his side. I was relieved it wasn’t that much work to convince him. The last thing Penelope said to me before falling asleep was, “Don’t get eaten by a bear.”

With our plans for the night in place, we set to work.

“You get the tarp, I’ll blow up the air mattress,” Dan said. We set the air mattress on top of the tarp, and Dan emerged from the cottage with an armful of bedding. We layered up, I added a few more logs to the fire and the two of us laid side by side looking up through a window of trees at a bowl of stars. “Did you see that?” I asked him. We both had. The distinct glow of a shooting star pulsed and then faded across the sky, an astral firework. We kissed goodnight and rolled into each other for warmth, me in my hoodie, socks and flannel PJ bottoms, him in shorts and a long-sleeved tee. Dan’s light snores cast out into the night, while I laid on my side, gazing serenely at the fire until nodding off into an easy sleep.

So how did the night go? Dan slept somewhat fitfully, waking around two, three, and four a.m., while I fell asleep somewhere close to midnight and got up closer to four to mess with the fire, which, I learned, does not provide much warmth unless you nestle up fire-hazard close. While my body didn’t benefit from the fire’s warmth, my face turned toward it did, and I basked in its warm glow.

At one point, at some ungodly hour, the distinct sound of a twig snapped nearby—quite close to us. Dan tensed beside me, waking us both up. I slid down further underneath the comforter while Dan lifted his head. I thought of the mink that lives by the water’s edge in front of our cottage, and the large fisher, a bear-like creature with claws that our neighbour saw passing by the top of his driveway the other day; as well as the porcupines the Madawaska Valley is named after, skunks, racoons and of course, the bears, which I have only seen forty-five minutes away in Algonquin Park. No further sound. Within a few minutes, Dan’s breathing slowed again, and I fell back asleep to the rhythm of his easy snores and the comfort of the fire. The sound was likely a chipmunk scurrying in the rock pile above our heads where they live. In the night, every sound is amplified.

When the sun rose, I assumed I’d wake and slide right into the lake for an early morning dip, but it didn’t happen that way. The stars subsided, giving way to a cyan sky. Dan left the warmth of our nest to go fishing and I pulled the comforter back over my head until way, way after the sun came up. I sank further into daytime sleep. I wanted to hold onto the dream of the wolves howling in the night with my eyes closed a little bit longer, a little bit longer, listening to the bees and the birds, knowing it had all been real.

 

New Beginnings

From every ending comes a new beginning.

This phrase is tired, overused, cliched, but I can’t help but see a red sun sinking deep into the earth, the black of night, the moon a pearl in a quilt of stars; and then as though a God were fishing, the sun hooked and reeled back up into its perch in the sky, dressed in muted yellows and luminescent golds. Something new, ready to begin.

My MFA program has ended. I spent two pandemic years immersed in earning a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction Writing.  “We’re masters now!” my peers and I joked at graduation. Yet every master knows that only a fool would consider themselves to have mastered a subject to a point of completion. The learning has just begun, and will begin again tomorrow, and the next day, if we’re lucky. Still, the intensity of the program, the degree to which we immersed ourselves in that learning, focused in on honing our craft, applied critical thought to ideas, worked to deadlines, received feedback and tried again. And again. And again. To improve and get better. This is worth an oversized piece of paper and a pat on the back. That the learning should and will continue does not diminish the accomplishment. But, maybe, just maybe, if you’re like me, before you dress in that graduation gown and plop the cap askew on your head, tassel waving in your eyes; before you strut across that stage to fanfare and applause, smile plastered across your face; before all of that will sit a question high on your list of priorities to attend to. A big question, the one that’s constantly at my throat, clawing my insides, pushing me further into the deep thick of this life’s offerings: What’s Next?

I really, truly, like to know where I am going. Not everyone does.

From every ending comes a new beginning.

A month or so ago, on a day when I may have been pondering that question of what’s next, an email jumped to my attention on the screen from Alison Wearing whose newsletter I subscribe to. Alison is a writer who runs Memoir Writing Ink (an online memoir course) and facilitates writing retreats around the world in addition to the many other hats she wears. I have read her books which are enthused with life and humour and seen her animated readings. She has a charismatic theatrical personality that only the dullest of person would not find charming. I know others who’ve attended her workshops and retreats and I have long since known I have something to learn from this woman. I just didn’t know when exactly that would be or how. Other paths have bumped into each other peripherally the past few years, with her name poking up for me here and there, and about a year ago, I seriously considered attending her writing retreat in France. I looked through photos, reviewed packages. But the timing was wrong. I already had residencies to attend where I would be engaged and working with other writers, and the MFA was intensive and consuming. France would have to wait.

But the email that came into my inbox from Alison was about two magical spots that had opened up in the France retreat in June. These were truly last-minute spots due to cancellations. An end for someone else meant a possible new beginning for me. Alison was seeking out published writers to fit in with the group, and I could sense this retreat would be a good fit for where I’m currently at in my writing process. I have essays to edit. The timing was right. The exact week of the France retreat, I had planned to be on a self-imposed writing residency with a friend anyway. My writing friend is a world traveller. Literally, she has been to every continent and over a hundred countries. We had planned to meet in Barry’s Bay, Ontario, where my cottage is located to get some work done. “How do you feel about going to a writing retreat with me in the South of France instead?” Reader, there was no hesitation. I reached out and applied to Alison Wearing’s retreat right away, and by some stroke of magic, within hours of receiving the invitation (because that is exactly what that email was, an invitation from the universe) I had a confirmed spot, and my friend too! And we were on our way to France.

What’s next?

You could argue that a trip to France is nothing but an elaborate distraction; that travel, in general, is simply a way to pull yourself away from the responsibilities of real life. But if I’m going to keep writing and moving on to the next thing, I need to recharge, to feel invigorated in my life and have things to look forward to. I need space and time to myself and with other creatives. I need to experience the world outside of my office window. Why not surround myself with beauty and do this in the wide open air countryside of southern France?

What’s next is a writing vacation, the rest of summer, and the business of real life. Trying to find an agent, secure a teaching job as a writing instructor, finish editing my essays, continue writing and running my own retreats and believing in myself. What’s next is more family life and visits and house cleaning and cottage maintenance and the plethora of usual adult responsibilities.

But first, we celebrate.

How many trips across that stage does one get to make? Visiting my in-laws, my brother-in-law asked me, “So when are you going to get your PhD? He was partly joking, goading me on, knowing it’s an avenue I’ve considered. What’s next? I have no plans to pursue another degree as of now, but who knows? What’s next is clearing the space in my mind for future plans. What’s next is being pulled by the tides, not adrift, but not fully in control of my final destination either.

But for this moment, I see myself holding a glass of something red, the sun a slow melt into distant hills, sinking deep into the earth, eventually folding into the black of night; the moon ever a pearl in a quilt of stars.

The Archway

Our covered front porch is accentuated by three brick archways. From the viewpoint of standing on the porch, or arcade, each archway is like looking through a window.

I found a new place to write. Sitting on a blue cushion in a wicker rocking chair on my covered front porch, my red dog at my feet. We’re overlooking the garden and perched where we are in the elbow of the street, we can see the comings and goings of our neighbours. Two squirrels squabble in the tree of my neighbour’s yard; Atlas’ ears perk up, but he doesn’t budge—not yet. We are suspended in this peaceful moment together. Even a six-month-old pup knows a good thing when he’s got it.

A van drives past, the squirrel hunting his nut at the curb lifts his frame, shifting the bulk of his weight back onto his haunches, and high tails it in the other direction. Good decision. The whirl of a helicopter cuts through the peaceful chirps of birds, disrupts the gentle breeze. With the hospital nearby, the helicopter signals emergency. Like a cat stepping onto piano keys, the whoosh of the helicopter compresses my heart, plucks each string; the helicopter a harbinger of tragedy, or rescue—or both. Rescue or tragedy or both. I recall the friend of a friend whose newborn needed new lungs to live. The mom waited for lungs for their newborn to arrive by helicopter. For that baby to live, another had to die. Perhaps a car accident, where the baby doesn’t make it, but the lungs remain intact. And that mom, just waiting, waiting, for the sound of the helicopter chopping at the air. Wondering how much longer her baby will survive without the lungs. Reconciling what it means for the lungs to arrive. Reader, they do arrive. As if such impossible longings could ever be reconciled.

A mama robin has built her nest into the vines on the side of our garage leading to our main entryway. I noticed her this morning after I shut the door and peaked behind me through the door’s glass window. The robin held a juicy worm between her beak, and something about the posture of her body, the way she stood erect, alert, puffed breast, on the sidewalk in front of our house, not far from the nest, said “mama”. And that’s how I noticed the nest. The worm disappeared, and soon she was carrying a mouthful of twigs and dry grass and up she flew, into her nest. Around she twirled making herself cozy on top of her eggs.

I haven’t seen her since—it’s worrisome.

Atlas has decided to explore. He momentarily gets himself locked behind the side gate, after I have to scurry across my driveway after him. But he complained almost instantly at the separation of the gate, so I grab him a hunk of wood to chew on, and now we’re back in our spots, me on the blue cushion of the rocking chair, him lazing on patio stones the pinkish-blue twinge of granite, gnawing on wood.

Two dwarf-sized daffodils in my garden are vibrating in the breeze. And the thought occurs to me how much the backs of flowers are like the backs of people, the backside of a flower. Our faces, flower-like, open or closed. I don’t finish that thought because Atlas catches sight of a silver cat, the bell on its collar tinkling, taunting. I warn him a few times—“Atlas!”—but once he sits up, ears perked, any hope of him paying attention to me is lost. He springs to four paws from his place beside me into a crouch position at the end of the porch, then quickly cuts across the grass and onto my neighbour’s driveway. He makes it to her fence, the cat safely on the other side. The silver feline easily slips away in the time it takes me to get my puppy’s attention, which isn’t too long. He comes back to me now, wagging his puppy hips and tail, like wasn’t that fun mom?

I tuck him inside the house, where he whines for me, confused. I wait a beat then attach him to his leash before heading back outside.

Shortly after, our elderly neighbour walks down the street, slowly, slowly. Atlas yanks my arm off trying to get to him. He loves this man.

I can’t keep up with the action through the archway; my pen unable to hold pace. The silver cat comes back, and slinks across the road just as Thirsty’s Lawn Maintenance parks in front of my neighbour’s house. One gas vehicle after another is unloaded and powered up. So much for a place to write in peace and quiet. The motors scream and Atlas throws me a sorrowful glance. But this is a window onto the season and these sights and sounds of summer I gladly accept.

And in this way, we bend from one season into the next, letting go of longings we cannot reconcile. We lean into new worlds coming alive before our eyes, and live as fully as we can, as observers or participants, inside the window, or out.

On Teaching: Demystifying the Memoir Workshop

In some ways, everything I’ve done to date, my educational pathway and life experiences, have prepared me to teach memoir and creative writing. Every tiny stream feeds into the river that’s brought me here. A joint major in French Literature (language, books!) and Psychology (the scientific study of the human mind and its functions, especially those affecting behaviour, aka the study of the self=memoir!), followed by a teaching degree with a French specialist (language, teaching).

Working with M.G. Vassangi at the Humber School for Writers gave me the confidence to know I could write memoir—and write badly, as I mixed metaphors in the same sentence and was ignorant of the tricks and tips I know now and continue to learn. Completing the first draft of my memoir was its own education, as were the hundreds of memoirs I read and learned from along the way.

I can say with certainty my M.F.A. (Master of Fine Arts) in Creative Nonfiction Writing both contributed to and inspired my creative life and endeavour to teach. The MFA revealed a new landscape in my periphery, one with literary festivals, book launches, readings, conferences, pitches, publishing opportunities and an over-arching view of how the whole industry works. I became adept, by necessity, at managing several writing projects at once, and I was forever creating something new—because I had to be. During the course of my two-year MFA program: I wrote my first play, dabbled with poetry and created the beginnings of a Chapbook. I found a home for four of my essays in anthologies, published in newspapers, magazines and online, as well as received acceptance in a literary journal for one of my poems. I wrote nineteen essays in varies stages of completion, and these form the first draft of a whole new book I cannot wait to put out into the world. I learned immensely about the craft of writing and editing from the thoughtful and diligent work of the three incredible mentors I had the pleasure of working with: Jane Silcott, Cooper Lee Bombardier, and Ayelet Tsabari.

When you are accepted into an MFA in CNF program, suddenly you are surrounded by like-minded bookish folks who tell you about the myriad great books you could be reading and the books that remind them of your project—and oh! Don’t forget the incredible books on craft. To a writer and a reader, this is a godsend. I have lists of books to read that will last me years.

And yet, still, none of this on its own really prepared me to teach memoir and creative nonfiction writing.

Some things cannot be taught, they must be experienced.

For the three years I taught grade one French immersion, now almost ten years ago, I never worried about being judged by those six-year-olds. Whenever possible, I tried to lean into my silly side. One lunch hour I stayed behind with my students as they had requested one of our infamous dance parties. I had Rhianna turned way up, which the kids loved. As the conga line rounded the desks, one of my disgruntled elderly colleagues flung open the door to my classroom and shouted at the students, “WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!” Everybody froze. I hit pause on the CD player and said, in my twenty-four-year-old whisper voice, “I’m here.”

“Oh,” she said, “okay then. Just turn it down a bit.” She turned on her heels and walked off. I turned the music back up, we breathed a collective sigh of relief, and kept the dance party going. I have never wanted to be the adult in the room shouting out directions. I just want to dance.

Becoming the fun dance party teacher is not advisable on day one when you have teaching objectives and obligations to fulfill and some semblance of class management to uphold. But I think—no, I know­—there is something that needs to be shaken loose between you and your students; a safety, a trust, a meeting of spirits, and honesty of the self that is just as important to learning as anything you will ever teach. When I think back to those days, it’s the dance parties and the hands-on, experiential learning that I remember. The silly songs and routines that got us through the day. The field trip organized by a dear colleague where the chickadees landed on my students cupped outstretched hands. Little fingers covered in dirt planting seeds, measuring their growth. Feet counting out steps down the hallway and playing imaginatively with manipulatives.

What I tried to bring to my first memoir workshop was a taste of the real world of memoir. Nothing I could possibly say would compare to experiencing the real deal. How do you explain the emotional gut punch, in Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, when the poor boys’ horse is shot before their eyes; the tiny beating of the flying fists of Michael, Frank’s little brother, hammering against the man who pulled the trigger. The horse’s corpse being dragged up the ramp by three men, jagged nails and uneven boards tearing and ripping into its flesh, the pink smearing of horse blood in its wake. Their mother, coming at the man now. Better to not explain it. Better to let the scene show what it’s trying to show in the words of the Pulitzer Prize winning author.

When we’re shown a thing, then what do we want to do? Here is how you ride a bike. We want to hop on that seat and try pedalling for ourselves. What I learned from teaching my first memoir workshop, is that I need to allow more time for the pedalling. I got my students on the bike, gave them a push, but I have no idea if they stayed upright or if they ever made it around the block and came back again. I ran out of time and missed out on the exchange that is sacred between teacher and student, the sharing and the feedback. Maybe this is an unreasonable expectation in a two-hour time frame, within the confines of a workshop, but I certainly wanted to hear something of their work. As a last-ditch attempt, as my time with them dwindled down, I offered to read anyone’s scenes if they would be so kind as to send them my way. I heard back from a few, and I’m grateful for that.

A note on technology. Ideally, I would have done a dry run through to ensure the links and movies worked with someone else on the other side of the screen. Ideally. I’ve made a mental note for my future self to avoid spending participant’s break trying to get the movie sound to come on. Additionally, Zoom share screen may be some sort of sick social experiment in patience; I swear things work when they want to, screens disappear or fail to show up on a whim, while the pertinent slides whirl into other dimensions. I’m exaggerating slightly; it’s possible the errors are human.

I’m new to this form of teaching, I’m just learning the steps. Thank you to those who have the grace and patience to stand next to me as I flail and find my rhythm along the way.

You know deep down, when you do a thing, if you ever want to do it again. Facilitating women’s writing retreats, the feeling afterwards has always been, Yes please, I’ll take more of that! Accompanied by my need to learn from the experience and make the next event even better.

After the memoir workshop ended, I’m happy to report, despite my own insecurities about the minute things I said, or where the pace should have quickened, or the sound that failed to materialize, I do want to teach. Again! Said the miniature being who sits throned in the inner sanctum of my mind. Yes, more please! The sensation I got from teaching was like a pleasant dream you wake from; one you want to keep on having.

When I woke up the next morning after the workshop, the thoughts and pleasant feelings remained. A flow of new ideas came rushing toward me in a gush, as my mind raced to keep up. And so I began anew, following the river, dreaming up my next workshop.

 

 

On Writing Retreats

A woman sitting on a wood deck is reading from her work on a beautiful fall day to a group of women

On Writing Retreats.

The first time I organized a writer’s retreat I did it because, as a mother to three young kids, I wanted the time and space to write. A word to the wise: if you want time and space to write, don’t organize a writing retreat and facilitate it yourself. Renting a space meant I had to do all the grunt work. I was preparing lunches and bringing in yoga instructors and providing feedback on writers’ work. With a clump of memoir writers, I was faced with participants in tears and traumas that risked repeating themselves, skipping from body to body like a virus to a host. How to manage it all, in my new-found role of hostess, chef, therapist, teacher? While still making space for my own emotions? In truth, I didn’t, I could not. I resigned myself to giving the time and space to other women to write, and when I did that I encountered a truth perhaps greater than the value of that writing time I was giving up. Hosting the retreat was a time for me to teach, and to help other women find their story, their voice, and share it with the world. There are times to write and there are times to learn. Teaching is the highest form of learning. Despite being relatively good at math, I’m reminded of this every time I try to give my ten-year-old daughter a math lesson. And it’s not that I necessarily learn directly from the writing of the writers I’m working with, though often I do, but I learn from their bravery; I learn from their curiosity and courage. I learn from their open hearts. And in return, I offer them mine.

Running a writer’s retreat has allowed me to listen deeply to the work of other women writers. And why is this significant? Why do we have to make space to hear the voice of women writers, specifically? Aren’t men and women writers treated equally now? Women writers continue to work within the context of some invisible and some not so invisible forces working against them.

Some not so invisible forces: Recently, the finalists for a Canada-wide Creative Nonfiction contest were announced and the five finalists happened to be pieces written by women. On the contest’s Facebook group for writers across Canada, an individual felt compelled to comment: “Five finalists are women, really? Have we gone too far?” Have we gone too far. The response from the other writers in the group was outrage, incredulity. Too far? The pieces were judged anonymously, irrespective of sex or gender, dependent entirely on the merit of the writing. One of the finalists identified as a trans male anyway, had the commenter cared to be inclusive. Too far? No, we haven’t gone far enough. Would it surprise you if I said the individual who made the comment was a woman? I’m reminded of a former neighbour who read an article I’d written in the newspaper, my very first. “Did your husband help you with that?” she wanted to know. When I insisted that he hadn’t, she looked at me, surprised, “You wrote that all by yourself? Are you sure?” Are you sure? Yes, I’m sure women’s voices deserve a place to be heard, a place where we can be listened to, a place where we can be believed. Yes, I’m sure, we haven’t gone far enough.

Invisible forces. Invisible forces can look like emotional trauma. Mothers are often the work horses expected to carry the weight of emotional labour in the family, of children and spouses, with little space left over for themselves to think and feel. Women need safe spaces to express those feelings, but we also need spaces where we can work, unencumbered by expectation or any other form of labour, besides creativity. Women, all women, deserve access to their creativity.

Invisible forces can look like sexism, racism, ableism, ageism, classism, and heterosexism (homophobia). These forces are invisible in that you can’t pinpoint their origin in physical form, but the effects and outcomes are real. A clear example for understanding the invisible effects of racism against black women recently came to me by way of Audre Lorde’s 1970s book Sister Outsider. She wrote, “I can’t tell you how many good white psychwomen have said to me, “Why should it matter if I am Black or White?” who would never think of saying, “Why does it matter if I am female or male?”” This struck the chord of truth. While I acknowledge my privilege as a white woman, I have experienced the sensation of being lesser than in comparison to a man based solely on the factor of our sex. It’s in the way, in a writer’s group, when a man enters the circle of discussion among a group of women, his voice holds the most importance, his voice is believed and held as the highest truth, his is the voice of authority. This isn’t to say men are always handed the easy ticket in, but more so to say that women among men pay a higher price to enter. As Lorde so beautifully illustrated, it isn’t enough to say we are equal, there needs to be a bigger cultural shift away from preconceived values of worth and who holds knowledge and who has a right to hold that knowledge. Can we, as a culture, listen deeply to the voices of women, our gatekeepers of emotion? Can we push back against ideas that women need permission to write and be heard and that what they have to say is somehow lesser than?

After facilitating my latest retreat, feelings of wellbeing and gratitude washed over me. I spent the weekend as one of fifteen women sharing stories, with catered food and a team of other professionals to share the load of running the weekend. I’ve learned a few things about how to run a retreat as the years have gone by and I continue to learn. As I drove home alone along the open stretch of road, rows of pines waving at me as I passed by, I knew I had experienced something with these writers so seldom granted to women, and especially mothers: freedom.

Tips for organizing your own writer’s retreat:

  • Know your why. I thought I was getting into organizing writing retreats because I love to write, but it turns out I also love to teach and facilitating The Write Retreat has been a perfect marriage of these skills. I find empowering and supporting women writers deeply gratifying.
  • Know your audience. I’ve heard of a doctor who runs writing retreats for other doctors. Find your niche by considering what specifically you have to offer. With a background in creative nonfiction writing, I attend to attract more memoir/ personal narrative time writers to my retreats.
  • Create a sustainable business model. Consider partnering with other writers and other businesses that can add value to the service you are providing. For example, working with a venue that can provide administrative services for you saves time and energy that can then be put back into the retreat while inviting guests speakers brings in expertise to support the work you are doing.
  • Put your heart into it. Your participants are counting on you to deliver quality programming. Are you able to meet as many of the group’s needs as possible? Consider setting up Zoom meetings beforehand to get to know participants and find out what those needs are. Send out a questionnaire afterwards and reassess how each session went and learn what you can do better for next time. Don’t be afraid to let your passion shine through.
  • Create a safe space. As writers, we know how vulnerable it can feel to share our work, especially work that’s newly formed. Create parameters around how work is shared and how feedback is provided. Focus on what works in the piece and celebrate loudly.

 

Tips when deciding if a writing retreat is right for you:

  • What do you hope to get out of it? Are you seeking comradery and community or solace and space? Do you want intensive feedback, one-on-one time, or time to play on the page? Each writing retreat is going to offer a balance of these things—a coming together and time apart. Feedback and inspiration. Find the retreat that offers the balance that’s right for you.
  • Does it add value for you? Is there a guest author you want to meet or a writer you really want to workshop with? Is the location ideal? Is the timing right given the stage of your project, or during the period when you want to get a new project going? Is it the chance to relax and inspiration that you need? The retreat needs to bring value to you and your work.
  • Does it feel right? Often, we know in our gut if something is right for us or not. Read the fine print. Does the idea of sharing a room with a stranger put you off? Are your food requirements able to be met? Is the retreat space accessible for your mobility needs? Are you attracted to what’s on offer? If not, wait for the next one.
  • Are your friends interested? While attending a retreat on our own is a wonderful opportunity to meet new people and make connections with other writers, there’s a level of comfort that comes with bringing a friend along. Also, reading past participants’ testimonials can be a great indicator of what you may be in for.
  • When in doubt, reach out. My expectations is that if a business wants my patronage, they should be willing to answer any questions I may have. If you’re at all unsure, reach out with any questions and an organized facilitator will be happy to answer them.

What Could Be: On Poetry

Something happened to me this summer. My writing is morphing into something new, taking a different shape, being swayed and pulled in new directions. Perhaps it is my emotions that are demanding the reshaping, orchestrating this coup? Whatever it is that’s happening, I’ve been writing poetry, and learning about poetry, and meeting poets, and reading poetry, too. Poetry is gathered language that evokes a strong sense of beauty and feeling. This is one definition of poetry. One that I’ve been thinking about a lot. I’ve been encountering and striving to put myself in the way of other definitions and interpretations. I’m keeping an ear out for them. Feel free to send your definitions, found or otherwise, my way.

“Poetry is not a luxury,” Audre Lorde wrote in an essay by the same name, “it is a vital necessity of our existence.” Maybe poetry is helping me to feel real, to embody the fullness of myself. And maybe poetry has been my way of surviving through a time of change, uncertainty, and upheaval.

Poetry is the song of everyday life humming. It’s my dog pawing against my husband’s closed office door for food; the soft warmth of his muzzle tucked into my hand, as I feed him. It’s a place and space to find the words to set down against experience. A re-creation of moments, a cyanotype image.

In Bahar Orang’s meditation on beauty, Where Things Touch, there is this:
“As Helene Cixous puts it: I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst—”

Maybe poetry is the expression of those luminous torrents? Of my fragile heart bursting shards of light onto the page? I say my heart, because it is my heart doing the work, the heavy lifting.

Here’s a poem that sort of fell out of me when I let my guard down. I was meaning to be doing something else. Does poetry form in the annals of our periphery?

I’m thinking of patches of dappled light I saw on the floor of Algonquin forest. How does the light even get there, in those hard-to-reach places, beneath the canopy of all those leaves? But it does. Light finds a way.

I don’t want to explain my need for this poem. So I won’t.

What Could Be
Dedicated to my daughter’s extraordinary former educational assistants: Mme. Claudia, Mme. Joanne and Mme. Catherine (“Keegan”). Also, Mme. Suzanne. Vous êtes le soleil qui brille dans le ciel. You embody everything that could be.

The best ones
Never have to tell you
How good they are

That they know
Your child
Because they’ve worked
With one hundred of them before

The best ones
Talk
To the child
And look at
Whomever
They’re speaking to
Address the
human whole
Without
Needing to
Point out
The parts
that are broken,
Perceived
broken.

The best ones
Check in
After you’re gone
To see your shine
Light up the room
Engage you
In conversation
Conjure
Your magic
Evoke colours of the rainbow
That exist beyond the visible
spectrum of light

The best ones
Call you by your name

Hold a place for you in their hearts
Find pockets of space
Where you fit in
Foster the friends
Your hand will hold

Remember
You like it best
When the music is playing
And they let it play
As you instrument yourself
A fine tune

They sway to your every scale
Past when
The final note
Rings
Because they believe in seeing beyond
What isn’t necessarily there
to the naked eye
But what
could be.

Dear New MFA Students: Welcome to the Program

Dear New MFA Students: Welcome to the Program

Writer’s Note: This post is inspired by the lovely buddy I’ve been paired with who is heading into the first year of the MFA program at The University of King’s College. They are taking my place as the new intrepid student I was a year ago. In talking to them, as I reflected back over my first year, it occurred to me that some of the information I shared may be useful to others, maybe even entertaining…

Psst. I’ll tell you a secret. Every student, whether they admit it or not, is encumbered by two universal experiences when entering an MFA program: imposture syndrome and the intimidation factor. Imposture syndrome looks like: I don’t belong here, or—my writing isn’t good enough. The intimidation factor is thinking like everyone will be a better writer than me, because they’ve done ‘x’, which derives from the false notion that your writing isn’t good enough. Hopefully, these thoughts come and go so that you aren’t plagued by self-doubt constantly, but I want to reassure you these feelings are normal. Some encounter them more than others. This is a well-documented phenomenon by writers of all stripes. The angsty voice of doubt whispering nasty thoughts in the writer’s ear, clouding their judgement and creativity. Banish that voice, don’t put up with it, shoo it away. You’re in an MFA program now, and—surprise!—that means you are a professional writer with your own form of talent. You got into the program, didn’t you? You are meant to be here. You have earned it, even—especially—if it doesn’t feel that way. You write and you write well. AT LEAST one other person thinks so. We’ll revisit the intimidation factor in a moment.

You’re here—now what? Get writing! Seriously, the cliché, you have no time to waste, is a thing. If you have research to do, start researching. Books to read, get reading. Pages to write—well of course you have pages to write—start getting those ideas down.

The way the University of King’s College MFA program in creative nonfiction is set up, after the summer residency in June, and a few pesky assignments, you have the summer ahead of you to do with as you will. I want to tell you to relax, enjoy the summer—I really do—and you genuinely should take some down time because the fall term is fast-paced, but hear me out: get ahead this summer. Write enough so that when September comes, you know you already have at least a submission or two prepared. Work enough that some of the assignments are off your plate. Look ahead to the assignments you have coming so that ideas filter through your consciousness. As you read good books throughout the summer, those ideas will eventually have somewhere to land. Take notes. Get organized. Write most days. Then relax. By the end of the second term (first year), many of my classmates and I had run out of gas. The work I put in through the summer got me through to the end. I did not for one second think of devoting my summer to writing as “lost time”, I thought of it as a return on my investment. You are spending an enormous amount of energy and resources to get through this two-year period. The MFA program is a once in a lifetime experience. Best to make the most of it.

But if you do have commitments, such as children, ill or aging relatives to look after, your own health, perhaps it’s full or part-time employment, do what you can, when you can. Every bit helps. I make it sound as though I toiled day in and day out, but my reality that first summer was that I spent a significant amount of time looking after my family. Your reality will demand the same of you. Find the blank spaces and fill the page when you can.

And once you do start writing, don’t stop. You will have to go back, edit, and revise when working with your mentor, but keep looking forward, ahead to the next piece, what’s the next section or essay or scene to lay out? Once you build momentum, keep the momentum going.

Remember: this is not a solo venture. The intimidation factor. Ahh, we have arrived. I mention this because you are now a part of an impressive group. In the MFA program you will encounter seasoned journalists, PhDs, MDs, MBAs, professors, editors, publishers of literary journals; writers who’ve headed up newspapers and magazines, whose writing has won prizes, appeared in The New York Times and who maybe have even published a book or two—or more. Maybe you are one of these writers with professional or academic notoriety—or maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re like me, and coming from a different field entirely, relatively “new” to the writing game compared to classmates with whole careers behind them. Writers’ backgrounds are as diverse as the books they produce. Our lives inform our writing. Have you lived? I’m guessing you have. Nobody else is better suited to tell your story than you, and nobody can tell it the way that you can. That your MFA colleagues come from rich and varied backgrounds full of experience is wonderful news! Learn from these people. You are now colleagues. And give freely of yourself in return.

Psst. Here’s another secret. A little tip from me to you. Pretend like everyone in the program is your friend. You heard me. Just do it. My husband baulks when I tell him this. “Just because you’ve met somebody, Adelle,” he’ll say, “doesn’t mean they’re your friend.” He’s right and wrong. If you adopt this strategy, everyone in the program will not, decidedly, become your best friend. But doesn’t it make for a better world and friendlier atmosphere if you imagine that they will be? And I guarantee you will make a true friend or two—or twenty in the process. Moreover, some of these folks will be your first readers, your work’s biggest champions. These people are your allies. Who better to understand the ups and downs of the writing life? Who better to commiserate with over assignments and deadlines? The pains and pleasures in the pursuit of publication?
It took a short time for me to realize that every writer in the program was a unique talent, otherwise, as mentioned above, they wouldn’t be here. What I’m getting at is that comparing yourself to others is futile. Wasted energy. You can expect and celebrate that you and your classmates will each become successful writers; what that definition of success looks like varies depending on individual goals. As you move through the program together, one writer’s success does not detract from another writer’s success. While this may be stating the obvious, rejection is part of a career in writing, so if you do feel the need to compete, race against yourself and see how many rejections you can collect (like gaining friends through manifestation—you’re bound to gain some acceptances along the way).

Oh! And you will be graded. The grading part feels weird, almost wrong. You’re going to put a mark on my heart work? The two seem at odds. My advice is just to embrace it, again, you are a student, and this part of the process can feel rewarding. When else do you get a grade for doing your work? It’s helpful to remember that if you complete the work on time, the grade range for MFA students runs from above average to outstanding. We are all above average writers. Say it with me. We are all above average writers. See? Doesn’t that feel good. Better yet, forget about the grades and use this incredibly brilliant group of individuals to your advantage: tap into their knowledge and skill sets. Which reminds me.

Becoming a part of the MFA community inevitably exposes you to the larger literary community. Make those connections too, where and when you can. Industry professionals will come talk to you. Their presence and attention are part of the perks you’ve paid for. Follow these writers, publishing professionals, editors, agents and so on on social media if their ideas interest you, or if they are someone you could learn from. Don’t be afraid to reach out to them on an individual basis, after you’ve heard them speak, and make a personal connection if you have a comment or question and feel compelled to do so. Do it even if you don’t feel compelled to do so, but know you should. What do you have to lose?

You are a literary citizen now. What does this mean? It means that you should support your fellow classmates whenever you can. Their successes are your successes. Something as small as a ‘like’ or a ‘follow’ is a boost. Many professional writers dedicate time to promoting, celebrating and actively engaging in other writers’ work from reviews to profiles to interviews and attending book launches. The MFA is a good place to get used to this culture of reciprocity, even when the act of writing can feel so singular—it’s not. We’re sewing from the same fabric of the universe, though each patch has its own sheen.

I recall being fourteen years old and openly mocked for the first time. I was a competitive gymnast, peppy and cheerful. The ponytail wagging kind. It may surprise you to find out that not everybody likes peppy and cheerful. I met a wiry looking girl my age who I later found out had a crush on my boyfriend, which may explain what happened next when I introduced myself.

“Hi! I’m Adelle!” I said in my cheeriest tone, extending my hand in greeting.

She did not, I took note, shake my hand.

Instead, she turned her head and said to the group of girls behind her, “Hi! I’m Adelle,” in a snarky mock tone.

While the girl’s reaction says much more about her issues than it does about mine, I share this story to arrive at a point: nobody is going to openly mock you or your work in the MFA program, I promise. There are rules and guidelines around giving feeding, which will come to your attention. Others will be looking to pinpoint what works in your pieces of writing, rather than what doesn’t, because that is helpful information. They will likely have questions too, and that’s okay. Your mentors, professional editors and writers, will gently guide you toward questions that will strengthen your work. Listen with an open heart and you will not be wounded. You are not your narrator, and constructive criticism will pertain to the work.

I could talk to you about deadlines and word count, but I won’t bother, because Dean is there for that.

Perhaps all of what I’m saying doesn’t fully resonate with you, and that’s okay. You get to make this MFA program your own thing. It’s quite likely that you and I are entirely different people. You may be a brood-in-the-dark-corner-of-the-bar-pontificating-and-pondering-life’s-existential-crises, fist-to-forehead, cigarette-dangling-from-your-lips kind of writer, while I’m more of a friendly-run-with-my-dog-ponytail-wagging-mom-of-three-kale-smoothie-drinking-optimist-who-loves-sunshine-and-trails kind of writer. That’s cool. I’d be happy to sit by your side in the dark for the day and learn from you too.

What matters is that we’ve come together from our various corners of the universe, thread in hand. We’re primed to create something, and this is our moment to shine. Raise your needles. On your marks. Get set. SEW!

I hope our seams will butt up against one another’s. I genuinely can’t wait to see what you will make. I know it will be beautiful.

 

Enjoyed this post? Consider subscribing to my author newsletter, The Write Page, for writing, reading and retreats that inspire—many thanks! And writers, please let me know about your author newsletters, I’d love to read them. Reach me through my website adellepurdham.ca. Questions & comments welcome.

Two Hearts: on book launches, disability, writing community and Amanda Leduc

Recently, after having read The Book of Delights, I fell a bit in love with the author, Ross Gay—the book was that good. This falling in love with people is something that happens to me as a person who holds romantic notions inside her head. I let myself get swept away. Offer up my heart. It’s just not something I’m willing to keep boxed up and tucked away. I wrote Ross Gay a note, professing my undying love for his book and he…never wrote me back. Rejection. This is the name of the game with being a writer and being a human. Sometimes you connect with the other person, other times you don’t.

But this post isn’t about Ross Gay (even though I think his work is wonderful and definitely worth reading), and it isn’t about rejection (though writing involves heaps of it); instead, this post is about my admiration for disability author and advocate Amanda Leduc and it’s about organizing a fabulous book launch and it’s about writing community.

I attended Amanda’s virtual book launch recently, hosted through a Zoom webinar with the support of her local bookstore in Hamilton, Epic Books. I’m going to stop right there for a minute. Local bookstores. Take a minute to shop in them. I placed a huge book order in my hometown’s local bookstore right after Amanda’s talk and got a lovely thank you note. I’m learning about the beauty of local bookstores, and I have my MFA to thank for that. Local bookstores support authors by hosting literary events in their spaces (or providing tech support online), and they buy local authors’ books and host them for book signings and other events. Most books sell by word of mouth, so these types of on-the-ground events are so important. I ordered two of Amanda’s books last night: Disfigured and her newest release The Centaur’s Wife. Book events can equal book sales, which is obviously good for an author.

Back to Amanda Leduc’s book launch. What made it so good was the bringing in of others and Amanda herself who is articulate, real, vulnerable and intelligent. She talked about “post-traumatic growth” and how some people use grief to imagine themselves into a new world. She talked about grieving, but also surviving, “the wonderful work of survival,” she said. She writes mainly fiction, but she’s an idea writer. I love idea writers. And by that, I mean, there are juicy bits I can grab onto that inspire my own work. Here’s an example of a thought fragment that appealed to me, “…lay them out in the sun…what the light shows.” The idea here of something being examined, exposed, but with the light, you know it’s good, pure. I can work with this.

Amanda bravely shared the story of losing her best friend to cancer in December, “you wake up and your world is completely destroyed.” The core of her book, The Centaur’s Wife, is about grief and loss. Desire and grief intertwined. She realized almost near the end of writing the book, which she started in 2016, that she was writing a road map for herself about grief, to deal with the loss of her best friend. I cried tears with her on the other side of the computer screen as she told the story. And I cried harder when she said that sometimes a happy ending is putting one foot in front of the other. If you’ve been through grief, then you will know what she means.

Amanda Leduc not only spoke about writing strange worlds, with fascinating details such as, were they to be real, a centaur—half person, half horse—would need to have two hearts, but she gave inspiring bits of wisdom to writers of all stripes.

Simply by attending her book launch, I learned what I would like my own book launch to look like. She had a fantastic host, author Jael Richardson, and an engaged interviewer in author Larissa Lai. A beautiful singer/songwriter, Victoria Carr, who was cast as the actor to read Amanda’s audiobook for The Centaur’s Wife, opened the launch with a moving song about a high green hill. Anne Collins, Amanda’s editor, was next interviewed for her perspective on working with Amanda to get the book to completion, which was so fascinating. Anne said her job, as an editor, was “to ask her the questions to help her see what she’s making.” Anne also served as a spoke’s person for the book, saying that The Centaur’s Wife is a huge answer to the question of what a diverse fairy tale can be, and she added that Amanda’s gift is “to make us feel so much about mythical creatures.”

As an aside for other writers/authors, there was a tech elf behind the scenes posting links and other bits of information in regard to accessibility, book buying, and presenter info in the chat that was perfect and necessary for the wonderful flow of the evening.

Amanda then spoke in an interview/conversational format with interviewer Larissa Lai about The Centaur’s Wife and the writing process. She talked about advice she received early from the brilliant short-story writer John Gould, “You can do whatever you want in a story!” and she took those words to heart creating fantastical worlds. She also shared Sheila Heti’s words, “You’re writing yourself into the person you need to be to finish the story.” Amanda faced real struggles with her book, overthinking at the beginning and getting stuck later on in the writing process, which was nice as a writer to hear and commiserate. But she advised writers to “trust the story and where the story is taking you,” acknowledging “it’s a hard thing to trust the narrative and trust yourself as a writer.” “Get comfortable with the ragged edges of things,” she says.

She talked about finding a writing community, which is a common refrain writers hear often, but then added a qualifier which I loved, “a community can be one person who is just your cheerleader.” I like how that takes the pressure off. One person seems manageable. Her description of finding the right actor for her audiobook also taught me about that process of the audition reading and finding someone who understands your book.

But Amanda Leduc isn’t just an incredible writer, she’s a disability advocate. A woman with Cerebral palsy. I am deeply inspired by her commitment to the disability community and to making her book available in every accessible format: braille, accessible pub, audio and conventional print (Check out CELA and NNELS for more information). I hope to be able to do the same with my books. Amanda is also the Communications and Development Coordinator at The Festival of Literary Diversity, FOLD, Canada’s premier literary festival. She uses the centaurs in her book as a disability metaphor; an “act of disability reclamation,” as Dorothy Ellen Palmer put it. Her book asks the question: who survives catastrophe? Maybe someone who’s gone through adversity, Amanda proposes.

She talks about her own mindset switch: “Not, why don’t I walk like everyone else, but nobody walks the way I do.” I love the empowerment of her words. “There’s always been a space for me,” Amanda says, “I just needed to claim it.”

Amanda’s claim that writers inhabit weird worlds was a reminder to me that I spent my evening listening to a woman talk about a book about centaurs and thorough enjoyed myself. But The Centaur’s Wife is so much more than that, as is every world we create as writers.

At the end of her book launch, Amanda took the time to properly thank the many people who’ve helped her along the way. “A book takes a village,” she said.

During my writing day, I sent out a new essay for feedback to four different people, for a variety of reasons: from beta testing to fact checking to literary content to seeking permission to tell someone’s else’s story. I couldn’t agree more, Amanda, it takes a village. Thank you for your wise words, the many ways you are giving back and changing the disability narrative, and congratulations on the birth of your new novel! Amanda Leduc is definitely a writer whose work you should fall in love with.

 

 

Leave

I want to be upfront about something. I love my family; I am grateful for my quality of life and the joy I get from spending my days writing. I love my husband who keeps me particularly happy and understands my humour when I call him “pony” and tell him to “make it rain” a pros pos of nothing, at least not something I could explain out of context (or in context). I love having my kids in school and I feel an extra abundance of affection for their teachers this year who educate them during the day. After Covid, maybe all parents of school-aged children are feeling this way? I’m having these fond feelings while simultaneously repeating a silent mantra in my head. One that keeps popping up. Leave, the voice whispers. Just go.

I’m completely happy in my work life. I love my Master’s program, engaging with other writers, having my work reviewed and receiving feedback and criticism and giving that gift back to others. And attending literary events. I’m mostly new to the scene of book readings, workshops and panels and it’s been such a rich experience. But I’m missing something. Something Covid has taken from me.

Freedom.

The freedom to connect with others in person, to gather over the holidays and, especially, to travel. I miss travelling. I miss traveling the way you miss an old friend, deep in my bones, like a visceral ache, a phantom limb. The world was there to explore, full of enjoyment and novelty, and now it’s not.

The other day, I was in the middle of an online poetry reading session, one that I was truly enjoying, when my eye caught the bottom of the Zoom screen window. The word ‘LEAVE’ stared back at me in bright letters. Leave. LEAVE. Yes! That is exactly what I want to do. That voice inside me screams louder.

I want to go away; I want to leave right now and be gone, away from here. I tell my husband, “My brain is sick of this place.” I am fine, physically, but my mind, my mind is not. I spend most of my day in the same room where I work, sleep and often eat. My mind is craving something new. An adventure. An escape. LEAVE.

I want to plan a trip, NEED to plan a trip. I pull up travel advisories and wow, that’s just a whole lot of red. The world is bleeding.

I’m in the head space where I want a vacation to look forward to, a means of escape to break up the dreary winter months ahead. I regularly feel that pull this time of year, but this time, no amount of planning is going to make any difference. Covid will decide when and if I go anywhere.

And I know, I know, this is a small loss in a sea of loses. Only a drop into the pool of our collective tears. But it’s how I’m feeling. I’m feeling the loss of experiences I would have had. I’m feeling the activities that have been taken from a chunk of my kids’ childhood. I’m feeling like my home has become a box, or so the story goes at bedtime, “The mommy lives inside a box and the walls keep getting smaller and smaller.” Penelope’s eyes grow wide. “Oh no!” she says, “what happened to the mommy inside?” It isn’t good. For one, she feels squished, which makes her want to lash out.

Space. What an interesting construct. Physical, as in measurable dimensions, but more so, mental, parameters of the mind. Having my husband work from homeis wonderful in so many respects, but before, pre-covid, he travelled extensively, and I was used to his absence, to filling that space. Now there is no space to be filled, instead there is overlap. And even when he was around before, he drove on the daily to his office. I had days without children that were to myself, when I had to cater to no one’s needs but my own and the needs of my work. Not so in the days of Covid.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m a bit sick of you too pony,” I tell him, not unlovingly. But it’s more than that. I’ve been a ‘stay-at-home’ mom for the past nine years. Finally, FINALLY, and I have been waiting a few years for this, I was getting to the place where I no longer felt like the mommy-in-a-box, caged in. I chose to be home looking after kids and then chose for that time to end. I was regaining my freedom and autonomy. I signed up for my Masters that included two weeks away, AWAY per year and I was so SO excited about that prospect. A break from my family AND the chance to hang out with writers and just write? With the bulk of my time spent at home with my family? Perfect. I was euphoric to be accepted into the program. The trip out east. The New York City getaway. Both since gone virtual. That low-residency piece was the cherry on top. Covid has eaten the cherry, and some of the cake, too.

This isn’t just about me needing time away for myself, but it is that too. I’m better for my family when my own needs are met. And I care about them receiving the best version of me, a mom and wife in a healthy head space, not the mommy-in-a-box who feels claustrophobic and desperate. At this point, I don’t even know if what I need is to go somewhere else, or if just knowing that I could go somewhere else would be enough. I suspect the latter. Call me spoiled, but I don’t do well with being told I can’t.

Over the last few years, I’ve gone on trips by myself. These might be for a conference or to visit a friend, but they are scheduled time away. That space worked its way into my life because I needed it. We all have different needs. Mine involves space and time to myself and in Covid-era, this has become impractical, unsafe and in many instances, impossible. Even going to the library has become perilous.

I am not oblivious to the rest of the world’s needs, but I am acknowledging this one small loss, because maybe, just maybe, you feel your own version of stuck-in-a-box. Covid has pushed the walls of our world smaller.

While instant gratification is nice, I do seem to have a knack for the long hall. Writing a book. Long trips. Marathon training. My marriage.

Waiting for Covid to go away is my least favourite activity, but in this case, I want to be around for the long haul and so I will hold off on the gratification piece. Other than solitary dog hikes in the forest, I’m mostly staying home. Sometimes sitting on my hands, watching my mouth, pulling at my hair. But I’m staying home to keep my family safe. I’m staying home to keep your family safe. I’m working through my personal frustrations and dissatisfactions because it’s the right thing to do. I’m pushing back against the walls closing me in created within the confines of my mind. I’m especially holding onto memories of past travel, allowing myself to dream about a near future where everyone is vaccinated, the world is safe again, where I could go somewhere if I wanted to and hoping this small grievance and annoyance is all I will have to face.

For the time being, I’m relying much more on a cheaper method of travel. Leave, just go, the voice whispers. And so I pick up a book and fall inside, and that world has never been more appealing.

 

Meat Suits

Choosing a career as a writer means I’m forever thinking to myself what is it you’re trying to say?

I’ve spent the last few weeks listening. Listening might be the hardest skill for me there is, so strong is my desire to contribute to the conversation. What is it you’re trying to say? I almost always have something to say, and I’m bursting at the seams to say it. Those who know me are probably snickering and nodding their heads in agreement. I have been interviewing others, which involves listening, truly listening in earnest to what the other person is saying without trying to interject or have a back-and-forth conversation. The experience has been a humbling one that I am immensely enjoying. It’s nice, for a change, to not have to worry about what I think, because in interviewing someone else, what I think doesn’t really matter. Sitting back and allowing others to do the talking is quite relaxing. All I have to do is listen for the story, and I can allow the rest to pass over me like a receding wave, like grains of sand leaking through my fingers, the pearl clutched firmly in my palm.

I have been working on my listening skills for years. All it takes is one person to talk over you to realized how uncomfortable that feeling is. But my desire to be a better listener roots deeper.

Listening to others makes us more compassionate and empathetic human beings.

Listening to nature makes me feel vibrant and alive.

Listening to the ones I love is like a salve for the soul.

Listening, because I spend much time with my thoughts elsewhere, pulls me back into reality, into the story of my everyday life.

The other day, in a writing group I’m a part of, my friend Seema wrote: “A man speaks the loudest when they are unsure.” And isn’t that the truth? I’m guilty of this speaking my way through uncertainty toward acceptance. Words as a way to appear intelligent, when inside I’m unsure of myself. I’m working on embracing uncertainty and listening to others. I don’t always need to have the answer.

In Buddhism, listening is an art form. Listening, without judgement, is a way to help another release pain.

“In Buddhist circles, Avalokiteshvara is referred to as a person who knows the art of listening. In fact, his name is translated as ‘the one who listens to the pain of the world’ — listening, contemplating the cries of the world. It is because of that practice that he became fully enlightened. And he continued to listen.” (Buddhism Now)

I’m no buddha or enlightened one, but for the past eight years, I’ve been listening to the pain of others through reading memoir after memoir. Counter-intuitively, listening to the pain of others has not broadened my own pain, but strengthened my resolve to keep others from reliving the same pain or at least, has given me insight into how to better understand the human condition and empathize with situations outside my own realm of experience.

Rape, incest, freak accidents, death, loss, racism, poverty, homelessness, illness, health, grief, gender fluidity and sexuality, transgender, disability, femaleness and motherhood: I’ve read about a diversity of experiences, which has helped me to better grasp my own existence and grapple with the meaningfulness of our lives. I listen to others, and can then think more clearly about that nagging question: what is it that you have to say? Listening is good for my heart and my mental health; listening enriches and informs my writing.

I’ve interviewed six people and I have two to go and it’s so interesting to consider the approach each person takes on the same story. While I’m asking for their version of a turn of events, I have a sneaking suspicion it is their version I would get no matter what. As human beings, many of us have a tendency to insert ourselves into the story, at least those with a personality like mine, the extroverts, who are bursting from the seams.

In Jordan Kisner’s essay, Thin Places, she quotes a writer who suspects our souls are the same souls, part of god’s tapestry, but we’re just walking around in different meat suits. That was the quote. “We’re all stuck in our own meat suits.” The writer goes on to clarify, “What I’m saying is that maybe we’re all the same, we just don’t know it because we’re separated into our own bodies.” When I read this, I hear a chorus of voices singing as one.

When we listen, and listen deeply, we tap into that collective hum. The art of listening and writing it down becomes a transcendental experience. Perhaps I’m taking this a bit far, but for me, from the perspective of this little meat suit, listening takes me to a greater place and writing is divine.