Dad started what would become a tradition when he and Mom moved to their retirement home 15 years ago. I don’t remember if it was Veterans Day, Memorial Day, or the 4th of July, but on the first patriotic holiday after moving in, Dad went to their patio and played taps. He told me he didn’t know if anyone else could hear it (adding that most had compromised hearing, so probably not), but even so, he felt it needed to be played to honor and respect the many Veterans who had died. His playing was noticed, and so it continued and soon became his tradition.
When our family was at Dad’s interment ceremony at the Veteran’s Cemetery in Higginsville, Missouri a few weeks ago, the ceremony began in a small chapel. I transported Dad’s ashes again, although this time in the back seat of my car as Mom was riding shotgun. When we arrived, the urn of ashes were placed on a small table in the front of the chapel with the tricorn folded flag in front of it. Two uniformed service members unfolded the flag and with ceremonial respect and measured precision, refolded it before handing it to our mom. A lone bugler, who was positioned outside the chapel, played taps as the flag was being folded. I was Ok, or as Ok as one is when their father dies, until I heard the sound of taps being played. I thought about the many patriotic holidays when Dad played taps, whether anyone could hear it or not. Today, with the urn of his ashes on the table while two uniformed servicemen refolded the flag, I realized the significance of an unknown bugler playing for a man they had never met – the same man who never let a patriotic holiday go by without playing taps on his patio for the soldiers he knew and most that he never would. Someone was playing taps for Dad. With that realization, my tears flowed. Dad would have loved the precision of the military ceremony and the respect paid to him, but most of all, he would have loved the sound of the bugle being played in his honor and having his family present to witness.
Taps is a 24-note melancholy piece of music played by a single instrument, usually a bugle or a trumpet. It began as a last call before lights out that was played on military bases. It eventually evolved into the familiar solemn farewell that few can hear without being emotionally touched. It is played slowly, respectively, and never with embellishments.
I miss you, Dad, especially on days that held such deep meaning to you. It took me hearing taps at your funeral to understand why playing the 24-note piece became not only your honor to those who lost their lives in service, but your personal obligation. Today, on Veteran’s Day, I have no doubt that someone will play it for you, in your honor.
This post is confusing. Art responding to art with art, but bear with me. Last spring, I submitted three, 350 word essays for a competition and they were selected to be a part of the Hoffman Arts Center’s Word & Image in Manzanita, Oregon. I was randomly paired with an artist whose three works were also chosen. I responded to one of his drawing with my words and he responded to one of my essays with a drawing. The end result results were two drawings and two written pieces that were shown at a reveal in early October in Manzanita, Oregon. I’ve tried to explain this as simply as I can, but even I was getting confused the night of the reveal. Here’s how it went:
With my son, Thomas, as my plus one, my cheerleader and my support, I attended the Word and Image event a few weeks ago in Manzanita, Oregon. This was the wrap up to the event that began last spring when my essays were selected to be a part of the project and a few months later, I was paired with an artist. The artist, Tim Miller, had three of my essays to select one from and respond to with a drawing, and I had three drawings of his to select one to respond to with a 350-word essay. Got it?
After being paired with Tim last June, we chatted for a bit, getting to know each other, then went our separate ways, me back to Boulder and Tim back to his hometown a few miles away. We were emailed each other’s work the following day and Tim immediately texted and told me which essay of mine he had chosen, adding that it was selected on one sentence that he was inspired by. I asked him which essay and he told me, “Aunt Ruth.” I was surprised, but I’m not sure why. “Aunt Ruth” was a passage taken from a fiction novel I wrote (first draft), with a ten year-old protagonist/narrator. (I’m on my third draft of the book now, likely with a few more drafts ahead, but the “Aunt Ruth” passage has survived all cuts). He made his decision quickly. I pondered for a few weeks before deciding which drawing of his I wanted to respond to.
Fast forward a few months and Tim reached out and told me his drawing was completed and did I want to see it. No, Tim Miller, I do not want to see it, I told him. I wanted to be surprised at the reveal on October 5th.
Thomas and I drove to the coast on the 4th, did my favorite hike on the 5th then had an early dinner before the event. I was nervous. I don’t like to speak in front of an audience unless it is a more organic, unplanned situation and I’m given the floor to tell a story in a causal setting. Although I always read my work out loud before sending it out into the world as that’s how I catch mistakes, it’s within the confines of my small office and not in front of an audience. With my plus one son in the audience giving me a nod of “you’ve got this,” I took the mic and read my words while Tim’s drawing was projected on the wall next to me. Once I started reading, I found my confidence and it felt good to be able to read my words, inspired by the artwork projected on the wall.
I’m doing no favor to Tim’s drawings by posting them this way, as they are drawings that beckon the viewer to move closer for the detail. I apologize for the post’s lack of detail. They truly are beautiful drawings.
Tim’s drawing, and the drawing I responded to:
Thoughts are Not Facts
Thoughts are Not Facts
My response:
The Precarious Balance of Nature
His name was Ernie Pfaff. I met him at a fishing lodge in Alaska where I was working. He’d wander into camp without notice or fanfare and, after a few days, would leave as quietly as he came. He was always on foot and wore Pac boots, with so many layers of duct tape they looked like tarnished silver boots — fitting footwear for the five-foot tall, elfish man with a twinkle in his eye and a sly grin. Ernie was 81. I was 26. He told me he would pitch woo with me if he was younger. It’s possible I blushed.
I hiked a few times with Ernie, and on those hikes, he taught me about the balance of nature and how we should both fear and respect it. Don’t let the stinging nettles touch your skin, but drink nettle tea, he told me. He pointed out the nettles on our hike, insisting we crawl around it after it grazed my hands and stung them. I followed him, both on our hands and knees, feeling ridiculous yet protected.
Before he left, he gave me a hiking stick he carved for me and told me when I used it to think of him and his wishes to be a few decades younger. Before camp closed for the season, I took the stick on a hike up a mountain near camp, appropriately named Pfaff Peak after Ernie. Halfway down the mountain, I realized I had left the stick behind. I thought about going back for it but decided it was where it belonged—on top of the peak that held his name, a memorial to a man who hadn’t died, but I knew I’d never see it again. When I came across the stinging nettle, I felt Ernie’s presence and put my hands in my pockets to avoid being stung. Ernie had called it protecting me. I called it flirting.
My essay, that Tim chose to respond to (the line specifically that inspired him I’ve put in bold print)
Aunt Ruth
It didn’t look like Aunt Ruth had found her love of children since I last saw her two years ago. She had the kind of face that even if she was happy, she still looked angry. She had brown hair, the same shade as dad’s and mine, that was cut so short that at a glance, you’d probably think she was a man until you saw her clothes. Maybe it was her solution to dealing with the curls that had made a sturdy branch down our family tree. It made her face stick out too much like there was no place to hide. She was the only other person in the house, so I tried to be her friend longer than I would have if it hadn’t just been the two of us. Sometimes, I’d catch her out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the couch just staring into space, like she was trying to find something for her eyes to focus on. Maybe she was trying to dig into the part of her brain where she kept the memories of my dad. I had to keep reminding myself that Dad wasn’t just a dad but also a husband and a brother. My Aunt Ruth was also sad he died, but she showed her sadness differently than I did. Her sadness was quiet, and wanted to be alone. It gave me a feeling that made me want to ask her if I could make her a sandwich or invite her to watch The Carol Burnett Show with me or maybe Bonanza if she didn’t care for laughing. But then she’d catch me watching her, and her eyes would narrow like a cat, and she’d give me a look like she had just caught me doing something bad, and the feeling would go away, and I’d make the sandwich for myself instead.
Tim’s visual response to “Aunt Ruth“
She Kept the Memories of Dad
And finally, the reveal. Tim’s and my work on display at Hoffman Center for the Arts with the broadsides on the right and Tim’s original work on the left.
Responding to art with art, the Greek term ekphrasis, was an interesting and creative experience for me. It was an honor to be a part of an event with ten talented artists and writers and to have my work share space with theirs. As exciting as it was to be recognized as a writer that evening, having Thomas, as my plus-one, was the highlight for me. I couldn’t help but think of the many times I was in the audience, in the bleachers, or on the sidelines, mouthing the same words to him, “You’ve got this.”
When I got in the car after carefully placing the cargo in the front seat, I texted my siblings and told them Dad was riding shotgun and I was on my way back to Mom’s. I hesitated before sending it, wondering if it was inappropriate or possibly disrespectful, but then realized it was exactly what Dad would have said had his dad been riding in the passenger seat in an urn that sat in a box, placed in another box in the front seat. Because Dad was a veteran and will have his ashes interned at a military cemetery, his ashes were accompanied by a flag given to me at the funeral home, appropriately folded into the symbolic tricorn shape with no red or white stripe showing, only the blue field with stars. Picking up his ashes in a Kansas City suburb at least 30 minutes away without traffic was a task on a list of things that had to be tended to and one I said I would do as I had a free morning. I’m glad I agreed to what now felt like an honor despite the rush hour traffic I had to go through to get there. When I glanced over to the passenger seat and saw the box with the tightly folded flag sitting on top of it, I knew it would be a moment I would recall later and more than likely write about because it was a new experience for me because it was my Dad, or his remains, as the funeral home now referred to him, who would make this a story and not just something to check off in a long list of things that needed to be tended to.
When we made our initial trip to the funeral home to sign papers and go over details after Dad passed, my brother, Tom, in preparation for being the one to pick up the ashes, asked if the urn had a screw-off lid; we had been seated around a dining room table in a room that looked like it had been decorated to make families feel at home. Except for the display of jewelry that could be purchased with your loved ones’s fingerprints in the center of the table, it felt like an informal gathering around a dining room table. I don’t recall the woman’s title who we were meeting, possibly the owner, but she took her place at the head of the table after helping Mom into her seat and pouring water for everyone. Once seated, she smiled at my brother and said he was not the first to ask the question.
“Yes, the urn has a screw top lid, and the ashes are in a bag. The urn is then placed in a box, and that box is placed in another box. No need to worry about ashes ending up on your front seat.”
I appreciated the break of solemness with the dose of reality. The subject was difficult, and I was learning the importance of finding the humor and breaking out in laughter as often as possible. At this point, it felt not only good, but necessary for the soul.
It wasn’t my first time transporting ashes. Several years ago, the container of ashes of our yellow lab, Marley, rode in my lap when our family took them to our farm to scatter. I remember thinking the container was heavier than I thought it would be, even though Marley’s weight was down considerably when we had him euthanized. Unlike Marley, Dad’s ashes will not be scattered but will remain in the urn and be interred at a military cemetery. I couldn’t help but glance over to the box, which didn’t look the least bit out of place as boxes often rode shotgun in my car en route to the post office to return something, but never with a flag on top. I turned off the music in my car because I wanted to talk to myself or, if I’m being honest, maybe to the box and the spirit that filled my car. I knew the box only contained the ashes of Dad’s body and not his spirit, but it gave me the same feeling as talking to the headstones of my grandparents when I used to go with Mom and Dad on Memorial Day to lay flowers on their graves. On one such trip, Dad had no blooms available for cutting in his garden, so he stopped at a convenience store and picked up a small bundle of plastic flowers. When he put them on Grandma and Papa’s graves, he added a note that said, “Sorry about the flowers, Dad, it was the best I could do.” His dad raised hybrid irises as a hobby, so he knew flowers well, and the apology was appropriate. Conversations graveside on Memorial Day were not solemn for Dad but rather practical. I followed that lead while conversing down Blue Ridge Boulevard with the box of my dad’s remains riding shotgun and I was smiling for most of the journey. Afterall, I got my humor from my Dad.
I was blessed to have Dad for the entire 69 years of my life, and I’ve seen most of my friends go through this process some decades ago. I had to wonder if they felt the confusion I did right now of grappling with the fact that my physical dad was gone. Forever. I will always carry him inside of me — his humor, his smile, his generosity, and the way he viewed life, but never being able to call him on the phone and follow his sometimes indirect storytelling path is hard for me to wrap my head around. His cell phone has been deleted from his T-Mobile account, and I went through his phone beforehand to make sure he didn’t have any unanswered messages and to check his contact list to make sure everyone had been told about his passing. Still, I can’t take his number out of my phone. And I’m struggling with using the past tense when speaking of him. I wonder… do these issues fade in time? Become more natural? More comfortable? More familiar?
Dad was 96 and had a very good life for 95 and 3/4 years, and that is what I keep reminding myself. A few days after Dad passed, my sister, Susan, and I went to our usual coffee spot near our sister Robin’s house in an urban setting of Kansas City. Exiting the car, we saw a red-tailed hawk perched on a fence post. As hikers, we both were familiar with the bird of prey, but not in an urban setting. Susan looked at me, and I looked at her, and we both nodded. Dad. After an hour in the coffee shop, we returned to the parking lot, where the hawk was still sitting on the post. This time, there was no question. Dad. I later read that “the sudden appearance of a hawk may indicate a loved one who recently passed is sending signs through this spirit animal about their continued presence.“
We both felt a sense of comfort and reassurance. A few days later, I felt the same sense of comfort while I looked over to the box that occupied my passenger seat at a stop light and smiled. You’re still with me, Pops, and I feel your presence. The tightly sealed urn wrapped in bubble wrap in a box that’s in another box with your ashes in it is as close as I’ll ever be to you again physically, but you’ve taught me to be curious and question things that don’t make sense and if you believe something, to trust that belief. I believe you gave Susan and me a nudge with the red-tailed hawk.
I know that processing Dad being forever gone will come in spurts and not always at the most opportune times. In the days leading up to Dad’s death and the weeks that followed, the only people I saw were family, nursing staff, hospice care staff, attorneys, bank employees, and the woman who explained the packaging of the ashes at the funeral home. I’ve been immersed in a place I didn’t anticipate being in on a visit to my hometown to see my sister, Robin, who was recently given the terrible and hard-to-process diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. This process has exhausted me to my core, and I’ve cried more in September than possibly in the entire of my life, yet here I am, still upright, with memories crowding my mind, each one vying for attention. I worry about Robin while in the throes of mourning my father’s death.
I keep circling back to a letter Dad wrote and tucked into my suitcase when I left for college. He typed his letters as his handwriting was difficult to read, always with the oversized “LOVE, DAD” scrawled across the bottom of the page. He said, “This could have been considered the 8th wonder because it is not like me to write letters, except possibly to tell some unsuspecting parent that their child wasn’t graduating.” You didn’t know when you typed that letter, Dad, that it would become one of my most cherished letters and give me the idea to do the same with my children. My kids all got letters that I tucked under their pillows after making their beds in their dorm rooms, something I insisted on doing simply for the letter placement.
“There were times, Laur, when I could have knocked you on your ear, but believe it or not, it was always out of love,” the letter continued. Several months ago, Dad had been admitted into the hospital due to issues with his pacemaker and, within 24 hours, was diagnosed with pneumonia complicated by COPD, followed by being intubated, a very dangerous procedure for a 95-year-old. Two days later, and with much surprise to the doctors, they were able to remove the intubation, and Dad began breathing on his own. I saw him that day, early morning, and it was just the two of us in the room. Maybe it was his near brush with death at that time, or maybe I just caught him at the right moment, but we had one of the best conversations we had ever had despite his difficulty in talking. He told me I was a “real pain in high school, which was a very challenging time…for both of us.” Those words made me smile, and I couldn’t disagree with them because Dad was right. Then he added that he parented me the same way his dad parented him, which meant ignoring a lot of the behavior and letting me be who I needed to be in the same way his dad had done with him. It was honest. It was real. He added that he thought his dad knew he was sneaking out of his bedroom on Saturday nights while in high school and hitchhiking to downtown Kansas City, where he was given playing time with the jazz band The Scamps. I felt more connected to him in that moment than I ever have—his rebellious spirit clearly having made its way into me, although my stories paled in comparison to his.
The letter ended with, “I’m sure I’ll continue to get upset sometimes with you, but I love you so much and always want the best for you. And no matter the struggles, you will be OK.” 8/20/73
9/26/2024. Thanks, Dad, for writing those words to me that I read alone in my dorm room, and now, 51 years later, I’m reading again, alone in my living room. I’m holding onto the “you’ll be OK” part with everything I have right now.
I’ve written things I didn’t want to write, pieces I regret ever seeing the light of day, and countless stories, essays, blog posts, and a few memoirs that may never be finished. Some pages come easily; others are slogs, but I stay with it if I feel like something’s there. A few days ago, I was given the difficult task and deep honor of writing my Dad’s obituary. I was honored my family gave me the responsibility of writing it, but I also struggled. Not because I couldn’t find the words or the stories but because I didn’t want to write in past tense. It was also hard to edit my words to an appropriate-sized piece as I wanted to include far more than would fit into the parameters of an obituary. I called the Kansas City Star to ask them what the average length of an obituary was and was told there was no limit. She told me they had seen a few at 900 words, which was rare, and if I had a lot to say, 800 words was a good number. As we spoke, I looked down at my word count. 982. OK, I told her I’m good. Inhale, exhale, and start deleting.
I settled into a table at the back of a cafe with a big cup of coffee and my computer and started typing. I was only a few sentences in when I realized that typing in a public place had not been a good idea, as I was only a few sentences in when I began to sob. If anyone around me knew what I was typing, I’m sure they would have stopped staring and sent over some tissues. After an hour or so, or about a large cup of coffee later, I finished editing, cutting a few hundred words in the process. The cutting felt painful because who am I to decide what is put in and what is left out when it comes to such a public reckoning of who my Dad was and what he did in his life? Dad was a storyteller. He would have also struggled with the assignment. I felt proud and sad at the same time and made a promise to myself that it wouldn’t be the last time I wrote a piece about my Dad. I was also sad, because Dad was one of my favorite readers, always with a comment, and this would be one piece he would never read.
Dad was blessed with 96 years, and up until two months ago when he fell, most of those 96 years had been good, with Dad holding onto his attitude of “today is going to be my best day yet,” regardless of what he had on the calendar.
I left the cafe with the kind of headache you get after crying, a pain that is felt more emotionally than physically. I got into my car, called my sons who happened to be in town and told them I was on my way to meet them for lunch, then I backed into a truck who was entering the parking lot. I’m a good driver and can count on one hand how many wrecks I’ve been in with a couple of fingers left over, none of them serious. All I could think of was, seriously? This is how I’m ending my morning? The couple exited the truck, and the man said, “Oh great, I see you don’t even live here… Colorado?” “Yes, I do, but I’m here for a while because”… I considered my next sentence as it felt manipulative, but I said it anyway… “My Dad passed last week, and I’ll be in town for a while.” The woman sighed and told me how sorry she was. The man went back to his truck in search of paper. Both of our vehicles were damaged, his worse than mine, but both were drivable. We exchanged information, and I got back into my car and cried because I wasn’t sure what else to do, then started laughing because seriously, had I shared with the couple that I had been in the cafe writing his obituary…well, you can’t make this stuff up and it sounded like I just did.
The events of the morning would have been a great story to share with Dad. After hearing it, he would have ensured that I was OK and the person I hit was OK, then would have found the humor in the situation along with the irony. He was good at that. Had he been in a similar situation, he would have chatted with the other driver and likely shared a story, ending with a handshake and a laugh. You were the storyteller, Pops, and I was honored to be given the gift to tell yours.
Bob was often called a Renaissance man, “a fully-rounded person, knowledgeable in many areas, including the sciences, arts, and humanities.” To that, his family would add that he was the one who got the call when the car wouldn’t start, the disposal was jammed, or help was needed to get an oversized mattress down a narrow flight of stairs. Dad was the first call when a trusted Volkswagen was no longer trusted and needed a tow. He improvised with his equipment more than once by taking his belt out of the loops and using it as the tow rope. Dad was always available and ready to roll up his sleeves and go to work whenever his family needed him. This philosophy was also how he spent 28 years working Monday through Friday at Olathe High School, where he was a guidance counselor with an open-door policy to anyone who needed advice, encouragement, counsel, or simply someone to talk to.
Bob was born in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, on August 1, 1928. He died on September 7, at Foxwood Springs in Raymore, Missouri, where he and his wife Nancy had lived for the past13years. When Bob graduated from high school, he joined the Army and was stationed in Pisa, Italy. His musical ability was recognized, and he was asked to form a band with the German prisoners of war. He didn’t speak German (or Italian), but he shared the language of music with his band, communicating with notes, not words.
He met his wife, Nancy, at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg, Missouri. They were married after he graduated, and on August 29th, they celebrated their 71st anniversary. He had a special evening planned 71 years ago that would end with a marriage proposal, but he couldn’t wait. Bob pulled off the highway under a Miller High Life billboard and popped the question. Nancy said yes, and on every anniversary after, including this last one, he would tell anyone around that he still couldn’t believe she said yes.
Bob and Nancy had four children: Robin Blackman of Kansas City, Missouri (Jim Cumley), Laurie Sunderland of Boulder, Colorado, Susan Ketterman of South Egremont, Massachusetts (John Clarke), and Tom Blackman of Olathe (Renee Barta). They also have five grandchildren: Thomas Sunderland, Grant Sunderland, Emery Golson, Randi Jo Blackman, and Evan Blackman, as well as five great-grandchildren.
Bob was a curious man with many hobbies, most of them worked on in the garage, which never had a car parked inside. Instead, it became the headquarters for Bob’s many creations, which included everything from making furniture to carving intricate designs and figures to building a telescope that he spent countless hours working on in an unheated garage. His biggest project was building a sailboat. The maiden voyage was at a nearby lake, and before pushing the newly crafted boat into the water, he announced that he had no idea if the boat would float or sink. Thankfully, the boat didn’t sink and became another weekend hobby.
He taught his children, his students, and anyone who knew him the power of kindness and the beauty of living with a “glass half-full” attitude. At age 90, he connected with a few musicians at his retirement facility and formed a jazz band where he played the coronet. Playing music was one of his greatest passions, and even at age 96, he still played with strength and soul, never using sheet music, always by ear. His last concert was ten days before he died. His love of jazz began in high school when he would sneak out of his house and hitchhike to jazz clubs in Kansas City, where he was given opportunities to take the stage, eventually playing with the band The Scamps. Expressing himself through notes played on his horn was one of his greatest joys, and although they wouldn’t let him play his coronet in rehab, his mouthpiece was on the table next to his bed. One of the nurses said they weren’t crazy about him using the mouthpiece due to breathing issues, but they weren’t about to take it away from him as it gave him so much joy. Two days before his passing, when he was beginning to fade, a video was shared of him playing a solo during a recent concert. His eyes were closed, but he had a big smile on his face, and his foot began to mark time under the blankets. When asked if he knew who it was playing, he shook his head and said, “No, but he sure is good.” You got that right. You sure were good.
His kindness, his smile, and his “today is going to be my best day” attitude will be forever missed.
I wrote my words describing my ten days at a writing retreat on the Greek Island of Patmos, with teachers, Cheryl Strayed, Rachael DeWoskin, Brian Lindstrom and Zayd Ayers Dohrn on my eleven hour flight home. I was pleased with my piece and believed I captured the spirit and emotions in my words. This isn’t that piece. I wrote the words in my head with Chopin playing through headphones, while I laid in my makeshift airplane bed. I should have broken the spell with some pen to paper afterwards, but easing into the moment as it presented itself felt like the better option. So here is my second attempt, without Chopin’s sonatas filling my headphones, and at Boulder’s 5,318 feet of elevation and not the 30,000 to 40,000 feet above the sea where I found my inspiration that didn’t get written.
Describing the trip as magical, inspiring, breathtakingly beautiful, and soul-grabbing seems too predictable when talking about a Greek Island that is closer to Turkey than Greece and is surrounded by the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea. I want to write in specifics, because as beautiful as the backdrop of white buildings set against a deep blue sea are, it is the details that bring an experience to life for me such as the sounds, the smells the tastes and the pit in my stomach I felt while walking into an overly air-conditioned room filled with people I met the evening before at the welcome dinner. They looked different though, with notebooks, pens, iPads and laptops in front of them, and not glasses of wine or sparkling water — more serious, more literary. I tried to maintain my confidence as I walked across the room to a table in the front, but felt like I was wearing new shoes on the wrong feet. Inhale, exhale, I reminded myself. Once seated, I began to nest, lining up my notebook, pens and water bottle and vowed to sit in a different spot every day because it seemed like a good idea. It was, but I didn’t.
Patmos is a remote island of Greece that is considered sacred, where St. John was inspired to write the Book of Revelations. It’s not easy to get to, yet I felt compelled to go. After getting the notification that I was accepted, I received a list of the other participants along with their bios. I was part of a group of accomplished writers from all over the world, which increased my anxiety and made me question how I would fit in with a group of teachers with MFA’s, published authors and writers with long lists of impressive accomplishments. Could I hold my own, or at the very least, lead with my sense of humor to cover up my insecurities? I didn’t realize it, but I was not alone in my feelings of inadequacy, regardless of what the bios said. On our last day, we each had the opportunity to read for two minutes. We could choose a prompt we had written during our workshop time or anything else we had written. One woman in the group read a piece that compared her insecurities to the awkward and anxious feelings of being in the cafeteria in the 7th grade and the ultimate fear of eating alone. As she read to the group, I observed several nodding heads in my peripheral vision. I had shared conversations with several regarding the anxiety we were feeling in anticipation of being chosen to read our responses to prompts given and ten minutes to write. Hearing her feelings, so beautifully articulated into words we all could grasp and understand, gave me comfort. Ten minutes is a blink of an eye when you’re scrambling to come up with an idea to write about, let alone to find the words, yet two minutes to share the piece in front of a roomful of people, is an eternity.
While on the island of Patmos, I slowed my pace enough to absorb the moment, while trying my damnedest to let go of expectations and doubts. Good World Journeys, who hosted the salons and writing workshop, has the tag line of “seeking a travel experience that rests the body, enriches the mind and feeds the soul.” They did not disappoint. I’m still basking in the feelings of a nurtured mind and soul and a rested body (rested at odd times due to serious jet lag, but rested…)
I wrote. We all wrote. Some of my responses to the ten-minute prompts I was proud of and others, to quote Anne Lamott, were “shitty first drafts” that I was relieved to not be called on to read. Maybe it was the expression on my face or my intentional lack of eye contact as the teacher made his or her way around the room to select the handful of readers. When I finally let go of my ego and dug deep into my soul and became raw and vulnerable, I was chosen to read. My face said yes, call on me because I can make eye contact now and no longer have to hide.
The journey to Patmos is long and maybe that, in part, adds to how special it feels to be there. It is an eight-hour ferry ride after an eleven hour plane ride to Athens. I spent eight hours in a cabin the size of a small walk-in closet with a woman I didn’t know and who didn’t speak English. On the return trip, we boarded the ferry at midnight after a farewell dinner and all I wanted to do was crawl into my bed. My roommate was asleep and the ladder to climb up to my narrow top bunk, was on a sliding pole, making the entry into my bed awkward. I tried to keep the ladder at her feet but the swaying of the ferry kept rolling it towards her head, eventually waking her up as I climbed up, inches from her face. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders in an “I’m sorry” gesture. She rolled over, unamused. I recognized her as she was the same woman who I shared a cabin with on the journey to Patmos from Athens, but because it was during the day, I wandered around the ferry instead, ending up in the room of a participant to the salon, where I stayed for the next six hours chatting.
When Chopin’s Nocturnes Op. 9 ended and I had completed my mental writing on the airplane, which of course was far superior to what I’m writing now, I sobbed. It was unexpected, but not surprising because that’s what digging deep into your soul with a room filled with other people doing the same, does to you. It’s in the excavation of the soul and feeling the discomfort in the process and the relief that follows that makes me truly feel like a writer. To the other writers, who I walked with on the narrow streets of Scala, Campos and Hora, spent afternoons at the beach and shared daily Greek salads with, thank you. To those who were with me on an all day boating excursion with swimming off the boat and lunch on a nearby island, ending with several of us Dramamine dreaming on our journey back, thank you for your stories and the many shared laughs. You were the invisible hand on my back as I read my work aloud and the studied gaze and nod that told me to keep going because I had a story to tell and you wanted to listen.
When I returned to Boulder, after a month at the Oregon coast, the floor of my car was covered with sand. I didn’t vacuum it as I wanted a piece of my time in Oregon to stay with me. I wondered what I could bring home from Greece as a physical memory. There were the clothes I purchased that had to be strategically mashed into a small and already filled suitcase, but purchased treasures didn’t hold the same poignancy as the sand in my floor mats. While in the Athens airport, waiting to board my flight home, my phone started dinging with messages to the collective Patmos group and to me individually. Photos, memories, addresses and wishes for safe journeys were lighting up my phone screen. I had my answer. The people in the room, who I shared tiny pieces of my soul with, were coming home with me in the form of friendships forged through writing and experiencing the island of Patmos together.
The view outside my door…
My two weeks on Patmos was one of growth, inspiration, knowledge and making new friends, who no doubt are going through similar withdrawals, while wondering how to replicate an authentic Greek salad, best served with feet in the sand and eyes towards the sea.
Twelve writers and twelve artists were paired to create…
The stars aligned, serendipity struck, the universe conspired and I found a new, 2024 penny, head’s up, when I left the grocery store. I was back in Manzanita, Oregon, for the weekend, where I spent the month of April and where I didn’t think I’d be returning until next spring.
When I said my goodbyes a short month ago, — to the sea, the charming town, and the moody coastline, I made a point of slowing down to absorb as much as I could before I left. I wanted to remember the sounds, the smells, the slow melt of the sun into the horizon, each day more beautiful than the last, and the feeling of soft mist on my face as I walked out of a gentle rain and into sunshine. Those feelings were still front and center in my memories when I drove into Manzanita a few weekends ago, feeling conspicuous in my rental car — a 2024 Mustang, which was not my first or second choice, but I did choose it over the Camaro. The guy at the car rental counter in Portland thought he was doing me a favor with the upgrade and I liked his spirit, but didn’t care for the car.
As for the alignment of the stars, they weren’t just aligning, they were in a congo line dancing around me. The timing was that good. There was another labyrinth walk on the beach, by the same artist that created the walk the day before I left, this time the the day after I arrived. The rental house I had in April was available and friends of mine from Boulder happened to be traveling in the area and we were able to connect and swap travel stories on my deck. And the weather just happened to be perfect – sunny and warm in the afternoon and cool in the evening.
I returned because three written pieces I submitted in a competition were selected and I only submitted them after being encouraged, prodded and not so gently pushed by my sisters to go for it, and so I did. Had they not been visiting me during my first week there, I might not have wandered into the arts center that they discovered and doubt I would have written three pieces to submit. Thanks, sisters. I made my return to be present for the random pairing with a visual artist, who also had three submitted pieces that won. We will be a part of an ekphrasis, the Greek literary form of art inspiring art, using both visual art and written words. I will chose one of the artist’s three pieces to use as a visual prompt for an essay and he will chose one of my essays to inspire his art, a drawing in his case. The reveal of the art with words will be presented at the Hoffman Center for the Arts, that represents the northern Oregon Coast, in early October.
I’m thrilled, honored and challenged with this project and have looked deeply into the three drawings I have digital copies of, while searching for my inspiration. They have become etched into my brain. I have until July 31st to turn in my words. Along with feeling honored to be chosen, I also feel vulnerable and exposed when I think about another person going deep into my work, word by word and sentence by sentence, to find inspiration for his drawing and wonder if he is feeling similar emotions as he thinks about doing the same when I studying his drawings.
If I had the actual drawings with me and not just digital copies, I’d probably carry them around with me throughout the day, arranging them on the table next to me while I eat then moving them to the coffee table where I’d continually glance down at them throughout the evening. Digital copies are not the same as the originals and I wanted to touch them for some reason. While waiting in line at the airport on my return flight back to Boulder, and any other time I’ve found myself waiting, instead of scrolling like everyone else, I stare at the three drawings, looking for clues, words and my story. The drawings are beautiful, evocative, well-executed and oddly familiar to me in their content, which confirms that although the pairings were random, the artist I’m working with, is exactly who I am supposed to be with.
I’m glad I was able to make the trip to Manzanita and was able meet the artist face to face, rather than the zoom option I was told I could use given I don’t live on the Oregon Coast. I felt I owed the artist a face to face meeting, and of course I wasn’t sad to have to return to the house on the beach with the beautiful view. The co-facilitators each drew a name out of a hat, one designated for the writers and one for the artist to form the pairs. There were twelve pairings. My artist happened to be sitting in the chair next to where I had put my jacket down while I socialized with the group before taking my seat. We were the last two names called. The first thing he said to me was that he was honored to be working with a good writer. I told him I appreciated the compliment but given that he hadn’t read my work, his words seemed a bit premature. “It’s become more and more competitive every other year when it’s offered. Your pieces were selected because they were well-written,” he told me. I was humbled by his words, also nervous because it felt like he just raised the bar of expectations considerably. I only hope my words will stand up to his perceived words of praise.
I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I’m challenged, intrigued, completely absorbed and scared enough that adrenaline has begun to weave its way into the process. And that feels productive, even though no words have hit the page… yet…
It’s not the gift, because it’s never the gift. It’s been a Pop-Tart served on a tray, the corner suspiciously looking like it had been chewed off, but I pretended not to notice. It’s breakfast in bed, served on a cookie sheet improvising as a tray, because trays make it fancier and you can never be too fancy on Mother’s Day. And I loved every bite of it like it was eggs Benedict with a croissant on the side. It was my child’s version of my granola recipe in a book with other kindergartner’s recipes that was handed to me with excitement and pride and instructions to bake for six hours at 900 degrees. The whispered arguments of who gets to carry the tray, with giggles and shushes are the alarm clock for so many moms on Mother’s Day and I’m not sure there is a better way to be awakened. Of course I was awakened earlier with arguments in the kitchen and hold back my smiles that are bursting to get out as my three young kids would wake me to begin the Mother’s Day celebrations.
I miss those early Mother’s Day’s that began with breakfast in bed and ended with me cooking dinner because there are no last minute reservations on Mother’s Day. One Mother’s Day, I confessed in an essay, that more than anything I wanted to go to the movies to celebrate the day…by myself. I didn’t care what was playing. I wanted to sit in the dark for two hours and eat popcorn and Milk Duds and maybe doze off. Several of my mom friends chimed in and agreed, but none of us would ever admit it to our families or chose the movies over a day of breaking up fights over who gets to sit next to mom while watching Full House reruns because it’s Mother’s Day and mom gets to do anything she wants, including watch what the kids suggest.
Moms are the first to say they are no longer hungry when they see one of their kids, who technically is still growing, eyeing the last piece of pizza. They are willing to sacrifice their coat when one of their kids, who was reminded to bring a jacket, twice, didn’t, and is cold. They will shiver through the soccer game or the afternoon at the park, insisting they are fine because they have to be fine. They are the ones who sit behind the tall man at the movies and are happy to go last when it comes to unwrapping Christmas gifts, always with the hope that someone remembered to purchase the gift you’re patiently waiting to unwrap. They will happily change seats from the front to the back (provided they aren’t the driver) when the back seat child says he or she might be sick, knowing it’s possible they just want a better view. We cancel plans, delay starts and are the one sweeping in with the pan for the next round of throw up and the towel to clean up the one we missed. I can’t say we do it without some eye rolls and mumblings to ourselves, but we do it and we do it again and again and again. As young mothers, we smell like throw up because we often wear throw up, but that’s okay, because we’re the mom and that’s what moms do. Our hearts are cavernous and our patience limited so things don’t always go as planned, but the side of love is always the side that wins.
Moms will backbend themselves around to help another mom because we know first hand what exasperation and exhaustion look like, and when we see a mom down, we do whatever we have to get the fallen mom upright again. This, we often do at the cost of our own sanity. We are never off the clock, even when our kids aren’t with us. Case in point, I once told a mom in an elevator who I had just traveled four floors with, a bold face lie as a gesture of offering help. I was in Captiva, Florida, with my husband and my two sons under the age of two, and was going to the nearby market to get something we had forgotten or possibly more wine. Or maybe it was nothing and I just needed a moment of alone time. The woman on the elevator had twins who looked about six months old, both boys. I saw the exhaustion and frustration on her face and in the way her body was hunched over the stroller like a question mark. I looked her straight in the eye and told her I also had twin boys and not to worry as it gets much easier. In fact, so much easier that the day will come when having twins will be easier than just one because they will always have a playmate. She looked up at me with eyes that had possibly crying and told me thank you, from the bottom of her very tired heart. When I got off the elevator, I turned around and she smiled an ear to ear smile at me and I had the feeling her day may have gotten a tiny bit better. I do not have twins, but I do have two boys 18 months apart, which meant two cribs, two carseats (at a time when only babies were in car seats), a double stroller, and an undue amount of chaos and crying. It felt like it was the right lie to tell within the sisterhood of motherhood. I did not regret it when I walked out of the elevator, nor do I regret it today. It was a necessary lie and one that may have put a morsel of hope into that tired mom’s head that she had not yet considered — that it might get easier as the two babies had more months or even years under their belts or onesies as it was.
Two of my three Pop-Tart preparing kids now have kids of their own and my third has one on the way. Their days of their kids balancing cobbled together breakfasts on makeshift trays with overly filled glasses of juice are coming, although I suspect their kids’ food choices may be better. I’m seven years overdue in declaring this, and it’s happened organically over the years, but I’ve decided it’s time to give up one more thing as a mom and that’s the holiday of Mother’s Day. By NO means does that mean the day no longer needs to acknowledged or celebrated in some way, large or small (kids, take note), but I’m moving my position down one chair in the matriarchal line-up to make room for the mothers in my own family whose kids are of the age of carrying breakfast trays to sleeping moms. This has happened naturally with my kids who live in other states, but I feel like it has to be said in the same way my mom said it to me when I had my first child. The connection will always be celebrated but it is the active mom who should be the one to relish in the glory of the day, eating a breakfast she may not have chosen and breaking up the fights of whose turn it is to sit next to her or who gets to paint her toenails on her special day.
My cousin’s daughter, six months into her pregnancy, asked me once if I knew how long the umbilical cord was. I didn’t know, but really, I did, but didn’t want to tell her. The umbilical cord is as long as it needs to be, and although the physical cord is birthed with the baby, the emotional cord connects you and your child forever and ever. I feel the tug of that cord still and it has extended its length to include my grandchildren. The lump in my throat that catches when I see my children comforting their children is that same umbilical cord giving me a tug to remind me of its attachment. It makes me want to cry and immerse myself in the memories of being awakened with warm whispers of “are you awake?” inches from my ear. I want to press those memories to my chest and relive every moment, knowing that the baton has been passed; also knowing it will be another mom who will comfort a child in the middle of the night and clean up the throw up, first off the floor, then off herself. And that same mom will call her mom the next morning and share with her how hard her night was and how tired she is and my cavernous heart will melt and I’ll suddenly have a craving for Pop-Tarts.
Happy Mother’s Day, to anyone who mothers and to the moms we have or had. The umbilical cord continues to tug, even when it’s not Mother’s Day.
I knew I should give them space by the meditative way they were standing; six people, shoulder to shoulder, on the beach, at the water’s edge, flanked by a dog doing the same. I was close enough, but not too close, to see they weren’t talking, but instead, had their focus on the sea in front of them. As I got closer, still with respect for their space I kept reminding myself, I could see there weren’t six people, but seven. A woman, or maybe a teenager? with a yellow raincoat sat on the ground in front of the group. I was drawn to them — their stillness, their reverence, their focus on something I couldn’t see and the connection they had with each other, with arms interlaced and hands held.
I continued my beach walk, trying to notice other things, but turned around every few minutes to see if they had moved. They hadn’t. Twenty minutes passed and they still stood, side by side, facing the sea. As I got further away, and began to lose sight of them, my focus changed. I noticed that almost everyone I passed had a dog and almost all of those dogs had a couple with them — not a single person, but a couple. I did a visual 360 on the sparsely populated beach to confirm that yes, it appeared I was the only one that did not have a dog or a partner. And right then and there, I said to myself, not even in a whisper as there wasn’t anyone around to hear me, “table for one, right here, right now, on the beach.” I smiled at my observation. Last night at the restaurant, I asked for a table for one, something I’ve become accustomed to in my solo travels and was mindful to not add the just to the one. Had I been walking with someone this morning, I doubt I would have found the intrigue with the six people standing at the water’s edge, shoulder to shoulder, with the yellow rain-coated woman in front of them. I’m more tuned in when I’m by myself — more curious, more observant and ready to fill in a story that I know absolutely nothing about.
Their stillness reminded me of the man and his dog that I’ve seen just about every evening, standing side by side, while they wait for the sun to drop. Were these seven people waiting for something or were they just not ready to leave. I had my own version of the story. I thought about the person who remains in the pew long after the funeral or is still standing graveside after the ceremony is long over. They can’t leave because of the finality of leaving. You only get one first goodbye. The next time, it will be a recollection of memories and a goodbye afterwards, but not the first goodbye. That only happens once.
My hunches were confirmed when on my walk back, I passed the group again, and saw the man that was on the end squat down and hand a box to the woman in the yellow raincoat. She stood to receive the box then held it to her chest and her head dropped. I was still a respectful distance away, but didn’t feel like I was supposed to be watching, so turned my back and observed a small flock of sanderlings running back and forth on the beach instead. When I turned around, the box was back in the man’s hand and the woman with the yellow raincoat was drawing something in the sand with a long stick. When she was done, she set the stick down and the man returned the box to her.
Of course I’m only speculating on what had benign the box. It could have been a lunch box with a half eaten sandwich inside and the yellow raincoat girl was hungry and so happy to see it that she held it to her chest. But I don’t think so. It was not what her body language was telling me, nor what I saw in the sand after they left, single file, the girl in the yellow raincoat last. When they were out of sight, I walked over to see what had been drawn and saw a heart and below it the letter “A” carved into the wet sand. The letter before the “A” had been taken away by the tide and all that was visible was a vertical line, maybe the outside leg of an “M.” I began to speculate but redirected my thoughts and contemplated the heart instead. It told the story the letters didn’t.
Maybe it is me being nosey or maybe it’s the storyteller in me trying to find fodder, (I’ll go with the later as it doesn’t sound as creepy), but I’m drawn to groups of people sharing —secrets or moments, with arms entwined and hands held. I want to move in closer. I want to hear the words, but know that gestures can sometimes be louder and more articulate than words.
As I watched the seven of them and the dog walk away, I thought of how blessed the person was who they were there to honor and celebrate (as per my made up story). I was touched by the reverence and presence I witnessed, whether that box contained someone’s lunch or the ashes of a loved one. I started thinking about my own family, (yes, I went there), and whether on mountain top with a vista, or at the edge of the sea with the roll of the waves underfoot, (both would be nice, kids…), I hoped they would show the same honor, love and affection I had just witnessed. Then I shook my head and said to myself, not even in a whisper as I was the only one in ear shot, “Of course they would!” And my mind began to paint the picture. Arm in arm, while my family quietly observed the magnificent shows of nature I had become so fond of in my life, the stories would start to unfold; memories shared, each told with an individual slant and exaggeration by the teller. Then someone would say what everyone was thinking, but no one had yet said, and that would be what a curious snoop I had become in my advanced years. Because I’m the one writing the story, someone else would add, “Maybe not snoop, but a story teller, always in search of a story and making one up when one didn’t exist.” And with that, the real celebration would begin, the sun would start to dip below the mountaintop and the clear sign of a heart carved with a stick would show up in the sand.
Several months ago I bought the book, “Bittersweet,” by Susan Cain after reading one sentence in a book review. “Have you ever wondered why you are drawn to sad movies, gloomy days or melancholy music?” Sold. Evidently, I wasn’t alone and I wanted an explanation. I started thumbing through the chapters on my walk home from the bookstore, looking for the why’s behind my attraction to the gloomy and seeking my in print tribe of like-minded people in the process. After reading the book, I took an online test that NPR posted in conjunction with the review and confirmed what I suspected… I am “a true connoisseur of bittersweetness: the place where dark and light meet.” This was not new information to me, but what was, was the author seeing it as not a bad thing. Instead, she says, “Embracing your melancholy could make you happier in the long run. We found that people who score high [on this test] also score high on states of awe, wonder, spirituality and absorption, which predicts creativity.” I’ll take it! Gloomy days and all. The author even made suggestions for those who tend towards optimism, but want to embrace their melancholy (the suggestions weren’t as dark or dreary as you might be imagining). I was thrilled. I had a diagnosis and a reason for going to a place I knew beforehand would likely be cold and rainy to spend a month and write about it along with other writing projects, a bag of knitting and a big stack of books. I’m also understanding why I love listening to anything by Philip Glass and one round of Leonard Cohen or k.d. lang singing “Hallelujah,” is never enough. Nor is five rounds, if I’m being totally honest.
I thought about this while walking on the beach last week on the beautiful Oregon Coast. I’ve been here around two weeks (I’m not keeping count because I don’t want to know how close the end is), and with the exception of the cold, rainy day when I arrived, the sun has been shining almost every day. It’s not at all what I expected but has been a welcome surprise. When I told friends I was renting a place on the Oregon coast for the month of April, several asked me why? The weather in April will be gloomy and rainy, to which I responded, that’s why. My family didn’t question my timing, especially my family who lives in Oregon, because they know me and my love for a gloomy day that to me translate to “put the kettle on and get the notebooks or computer out.” It’s a call for indoor recess that I meet with a sigh of relief and gratitude. I envisioned being tucked away with a fire, my computer and a mug of tea, and the moody sea for inspiration. Instead, I’ve hiked, I’ve explored, I’ve walked miles on the beach and I’ve spent time in coffee shops, cafes and the book store in town. I’m learning to embrace and understand that the biggest part of writing is not putting the pen to the paper or the fingers to the keyboard, but rather, is letting my mind wander and taking note of the path it’s making and if it is pulling me towards a destination I hadn’t thought of. There’s not a better place to do that than on the vast, expansive Oregon Coast and on most days, I only passing a handful of people.
Having been born in the mountains and raised in the mid-west, I don’t know “ocean things” such as tide tables or sneaker waves or rip tides or tsunami inundation zones, but I’m feeling more comfortable and am learning the rhythm of the tides and the best time to discover star fish in the tide pools. And I’ve downloaded an earthquake app on my phone because I’m in a tsunami zone and my son, in looking out for my well-being, suggested it. Although I’ve been to this part of the coast multiple times with my Portland kids, it feels new this time — new because I’m experiencing it by myself.
I’ve always answered mountains when asked, “Mountains or ocean?” In the same way I’d say salt, when asked “salt or sugar” or sunrise with the “sunrise or sunset” question. There are several more questions that go with this “personality quiz” my sister and I devised, possibly before either one of us had seen the ocean, so only chose mountains. I’ve learned these past ten days that although I consider myself a mountain girl because that’s where I was born and where my barometer was set, I think it’s okay, while I’m sitting out on my deck with the sea in front of me, to say I’m an ocean person too. And if I’m honest, I’m also a sugar person and a sunset person. I’m unapologetically taking them all. When I’m back in Boulder, I’ll lean into my mountain side, but right now, with the sea in front of me, I’m claiming ocean girl for the month and am taking in all it has to offer. It’s moody. It’s dramatic. It’s vast, lonely and inspiring and the perfect spot for inspiration.
I’ve found my pace, starting with coffee in the morning, switching on the fireplace, and turning the swivel chair in the living room to face out towards the ocean. At the end of the day, I watch the cars start to line up along the road directly in front of the place I’ve rented to view the sunset. I love the importance that is given to the daily ritual of the sun dipping below the horizon. People bring their chairs to the beach or sit on driftwood, or some remain in their cars with the opened doors and coolers. Last night, I watched the silhouette of a man with his dog, the only two on the beach visible to me from my deck. They both stood perfectly still in anticipation for at least 15 minutes. As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, the dog looked at his owner then took off running as dogs do. I honestly think the dog was enjoying the drop of the sun as much as his owner. It was a beautiful moment in time and I get to do it again tomorrow night. When I looked back through my daily sunset photos, the man and his dog are in every one of them. It’s their nightly routine. I love it even more now. Meeting the end of the day with heightened anticipation even though it happened yesterday and will more than likely happen tomorrow and every day that follows, feels hopeful to me. I’ve even learned wen to start Philip Glass’s “In the Upper Room” to synchronize his final and most dramatic piece to come on just as the sun makes its final dip, leaving behind a pink streaked sky.
My sister had a friend from college that had the same response whenever she was experiencing something incredible. She’d say, “Sell my clothes, I’m GOIN’ to heaven!” (emphasis on the GOIN’). She was raised Catholic. Maybe its something that all Catholics know — you don’t need clothes in heaven. Presbyterians, on the other hand, would likely pack a change of underwear, socks and a map, just in case. That being said, I’m starting to tag stuff…
This morning, the sunny skies became cloudy, the temperatures dropped and raindrops are starting to fall. I put Philip Glass and the kettle on and have declared it an indoor recess day. My bittersweet soul is happy.
To the Wandering Writers who I now call friends, may we continue to wander, write about it and share our words with each other.
I returned home yesterday from a six day trip I signed up for with little information and a lot of impulsiveness and I’m so thankful I did. I was on my way home from my 50th high school reunion, breaking up my driving trip into two days instead of one, because I was only one month out from getting a knee replacement. Because I follow writers on social media, my feed is filled with anything and everything that has to do with writers and writing, including workshops, retreats, Zoom classes and sadly, sites that will give you the coveted information on how to write a book in a matter of days and get it published in even less time, at a cost that likely ends in a .99. I’ll humbly admit that, yes, I looked at the site with the same frame of mind that had me contemplating the purchase of a small bottle of oil that was “guaranteed to heal the pain of bone on bone joints.” I did not send money for the writing secret or the knee pain cure. I saw Jessica’s post while seated at the bar at a restaurant in Salina, Kansas (it feels less obvious to eat alone at a bar than at a table, eliminating the awkwardness of the hostess quickly removing one place setting before being seated). Halfway into a plate of gluten-free pasta and trying to enjoy a not very good glass of the house red, I saw the words “Sayulita, Mexico” and “memoir.” I was hooked with Sayulita, a place I had been to multiple times, but the hook was set when I saw “memoir.”
Writing is a solitary endeavor — a team of one, where the writer is the coach, the player, the audience and the cheerleader. While in the process of writing, whether a page or a chapter, there is no one but me to look over my shoulder and say “good work, strong metaphor, don’t go there and definitely not there, but I liked the circuitous route you took, or what all writers wait to hear themselves say, “stand up and dance, because you, my friend, just nailed it!” It’s difficult to be the cheerleader who says “keep writing, you’ve got this” when there are days when you can’t find the right words and everything reads like the voices of the adults in the Charlie Brown shows, “Mwa, Mwa, Mwa.” A writing group, I thought, as I entered my credit card numbers onto the form in-between bites of pasta, was exactly what I needed. A writing group would be able to tell me to keep the words, change the words or maybe write about something else entirely. Actually, short of the two writing workshops I have attended in person and five via Zoom, each only lasting a day or two, I had no idea what six days at a writing retreat would be like, but I did know Sayulita and that seemed like a good enough start.
Insecurities crept in, as they so often do when faced with something new — what if my writing is not good enough? My subject not tragic enough? What if don’t like the other women? Or worse, what if they don’t like me? What if I’m the oldest? The least creative? And finally, for the lightening round, what if no one cares about the pages I’ve written? I can’t speak for the entire group, but can confirm I heard several going through a similar zig zag of emotions.
As I was driving home the next day, my feelings swung from I can’t believe I signed up for a memoir workshop in Mexico, to I can’t wait. Fortunately, the “I can’t wait” stuck and I began preparing pages to share with Jessica Hill, the facilitator, and diving into the two books we would have discussions on while at the retreat. Jessica went above and beyond in preparing us for what to expect with two Zoom meetings to meet the group beforehand and two individual Zoom meetings to dive deeper into our goals and expectations with her.
Yesterday, we said our goodbyes to each other, with hugs and promises of staying in contact. Half the group left for earlier flights, while the remainder of us gathered in the seating area outside of the reception and played with the in-house kitten. We said our goodbyes again when we arrived at the airport in Puerta Vallarta, then again while some of us spotted each another in the long security line that snaked itself around what felt like half the airport. Then finally, yet again, when some of us found each other at our designated gates, where we exchanged our final final on the hugs and goodbyes. Hardly the Irish goodbye of sneaking out the backdoor without notice, we did the opposite and let it linger until we had to finally let go and line up at our respective gates for the flights that would take us home.
Mary, a brilliant writer who had us leaning in when she read, followed by uninhibited laughter at her uninhibited words, found me at gate 10, shortly before boarding and gave me a beautiful pair of silver earrings she bought for me. She told me she saw them and remembered I wore silver. It may have been the night you tucked in early, Mary, and didn’t hear all the pieces that were read that night, but “remembered I wore silver” was a line from one of the chapters I read, touching me even more. After all the hugs followed by more hugs, Mary’s gift to me was what brought on the tears. I let them fall down my cheeks, not really caring about the couple in front of me who was also going to Denver and appeared to be a lot more anxious about leaving than I was. The tears were the kind of tears I wanted to remember and save — tears of support, friendship, love and a connection with our words. Moments I’d be reminded of when hunched over my computer in the early morning hours, wearing a bathrobe with beautiful silver earrings dangling from my earlobes. Moments I will recall while wondering if what I’m typing is good or readable or enough.
Showing off one of my earrings from Mary. I think they’re magic.
I unexpectedly connected with 11 women, who I now call friends, on a level far deeper than I could have imagined possible in six short days and I did it near the place where I took my first trip after my divorce to an all girls surf camp with my sisters. It felt very cyclical in the timing as I thought back to the night eating dinner at the bar in Salina, Kansas. I was supposed to be at La Joya Resort, gathered with these women, sharing my work and being inspired by theirs, while recognizing the journey I had been on since finding my courage on a surf board so many years ago. And inspired I was. I heard words from memoir chapters that made me cry, both for the experience the writer went through and the tremendous bravery she had to share it. I held my new writing friends’ words like the precious gifts they were as I made my way back to my bungalow every night on the the cobble stone paths in the dark, the memory of their words mingling with the sounds of the ocean as I fell asleep. Mornings were spent workshopping various aspects of memoir writing and writing from prompts we shared or kept to ourselves. In the evenings, after afternoons of writing, we shared our words and our hearts in the process.
There were so many places to write and although it was a small resort, we all were able to find our spots and our privacy, whether in lounge chairs by the pool or on the beach, or on my little balcony with views of the ocean or in the lounge area of the dining room. At night, our proximity to the ocean became my sound machine, so loud the first night, coupled with the breeze from the ceiling fan, that I woke up in the middle of the night wondering where I was and if I should take cover given the roar of the waves. I’m a midwest and a mountain girl. The ocean sounds are a novelty, albeit one I embrace. Last night, while having a hard time falling asleep, I tried to replicate the sounds that had lulled me to sleep for the past several nights with an “ocean sounds” app. After 15 minutes it became annoying. It was not the same. One of my new “sisters in writing” (thank you, E. J. ) sent us all a recording she made of the ocean before we left. It was one more reminder for me. I hope the reminders will continue.
When 10 open-hearted women opened their notebooks or computers, and were willing to embrace their most vulnerable selves, magic happened. Beautiful, inspiring, magic. To those women who listened to my words, gently rubbed my back when they came out shaky and gave me the push and the inspiration to keep on writing when it felt uncomfortable and even painful, thank you from the bottom of my very full heart. To say the experience was life-changing sounds overly dramatic, but it truly did change my life, so I’ll go with the dramatic. The words I’m sharing have barely scratched the surface. We ended our time together with a bonfire on the beach where we burned our resistances. It was the perfect ending to new beginnings.
Our resistances, road blocks and fears, up in flames then gone.
Finally, to you, Jessica, who created and orchestrated these past 6 days so beautifully, I’m forever grateful. The alignment of the stars, Devine intervention, manifesting or perhaps a committee of all three, came together for me that night when your post made its way to my instagram account while eating pasta at a bar in Salina, Kansas. As my writing mentor, you’d likely tell me write stream of consciousness about my experience. And so I did. Thank you.
