by Laura Munson | Nov 9, 2022 | Uncategorized
You know that thing you want so badly but you’ve told yourself you just can’t have? For decades? That thing which you know would change your health, your happiness, your creativity, your general outlook on life, your hope in yourself and in your future? That thing?
I’m not talking about something that you think would be good for someone else. Although I’m sure you would be very good at helping that someone else say yes to that good thing that you’re so crystal-clear-sure would change everything for them. That thing they’ve been hinting at but have not yet fully claimed. I’m sure you’d have a whole Atticus Finch persuasive argument about why their lives might even depend on them saying yes to it. I’m sure that you’d be willing to take billable hours out of your workday to persuade them to say yes.
And you’d be smart about it. You’d wait until their birthday. When they’d have to say yes. You’d take them to their favorite restaurant. You’d order them their favorite thing on earth that they’d never order on their own: oysters on the half shell and a glass of prosecco. You’d wait until the first one slid down their throat, followed by a savored sip of bubbly, and then in the blush of their first, sated sigh— something that you haven’t heard from them in months…then and only then…you’d look at them lovingly, but direly, and say:
“It’s time. You know you have to do this big, beautiful thing for yourself. You’ve been hinting at it forever. If I’m getting sick of it, you must really be sick of it. What would happen if you said yes on this next trip around the sun? Would the sky fall? I’m here to promise you: the sky isn’t going to fall. Not because you finally gave yourself permission to say yes to this thing that you want so deeply but can’t even form full sentences about. Just…groans.”
And their faces would flicker with the possibility of finally granting themselves this thing they’ve wanted for years. They’d look like a child for that flicker of a moment. You’d know what their face looked like when they found a penny and put it into a gumball machine and out came a glistening pink orb. So much possibility!
But then their faces would fade into old stories that they have no idea how to rewrite. And they’d utter any number of renditions of the following:
We don’t spend money on ourselves in our family.
It’s selfish.
We suffer and silently feel proud of living in lack. With smiles on our faces, and a lot of ‘I’m fine, how are you?’
We’ve been that way for generations.
Who am I to break the chain just because of something that I want?
So badly. That I can taste it.
Then they’d cross their arms over their chest and look in every direction but into your eyes, and they’d say, “You really shouldn’t have ordered those oysters. It’s so decadent. I should get back to work. You can have them. I know how much you love oysters.” Quick peck on the cheek and even quicker exit.
Now what are you going to do? Find someone else to push, in the way of dreams? Because here’s what you don’t want to think about in any way shape or form: what would happen if you stopped putting all your energy into other people’s “problems” and held the mirror up to yourself? What do you want that you’re not giving yourself? What are your dreams? I bet you suddenly want to run out the door because this is uncharted territory, or at least it has been for a long time now. Since post-divorce reinvention, the fledge of two kids, and a global pandemic…you’ve been in survival mode. Saving mode. Hoarding mode, even. The only thing is: you’re the only one who believes that you need to be in survival mode anymore. Everyone else wants to take you for lunch on your birthday, order you oysters and prosecco, and implore you to thrive again.
Damn.
All of this…recently happened to me, only in its own unique way. It was a bitter but bright reminder of the world of lack I’d let script my life. And it led to a yes I hadn’t known was so pressing. A dream I didn’t know I’d stopped dreaming. That yes stopped years of nos in their lack-living tracks…and welcomed a future of abundance. It was time. And as with many of these pivotal moments, it happened thanks to a dear friend.
A bit of backstory to help you say your own yes:
For twelve years I’ve been helping people say yes to their creative self-expression through the most powerful tool I know: the written word. I haven’t taken them out for lunch on their birthday and ordered them oysters. I haven’t pushed or prodded about their personal life. I’m in no way a therapist and I don’t pretend to be one. But I’ve spent at least an hour with thousands of people on the phone to see if they’re a match for my Haven Writing Retreats and vice the verse. I’ve listened to their writing dreams and what’s in the way of those dreams. Some beginners. Some published. And everything in-between.
What I’m listening for most of all is a longing in their voices. I know that my writing programs will feed that longing. And I can speak to it so confidently because it’s not about me. It’s about the program. I built the program because I’ve walked the walk as a writer, editor, teacher, retreat-leader, and author’s advocate in different iterations, for decades, but mostly for the last ten years and over a thousand clients from all over the world. And it’s the program which holds my clients. I hold the program. The people who staff the Dancing Spirit Ranch retreat center hold me. It’s a very healthy symbiosis. But that doesn’t mean that I know how to be an advocate for my own dreams. Sure, I can give myself permission to take a trip to explore new parts of the world. But what about my oldest adult dream, right in my own backyard? A room of my own. A writing studio. My personal haven. An almost thirty-year old dream that I’d blocked out, and even given away.
Here is the moment when it all changed:
It was after the seventh of my 2021 Haven Writing Retreats last fall. I’d said goodbye to my last group of eight brave souls, with that full heart, yet pit in my stomach. I’m not good at goodbyes, especially after Haven. Haven changes lives, and all of it changes mine. It’s a lot to process and it requires some time to honor it before I get in my truck and drive back to my regular life. Usually I sit at the edge of the lake and look into the peaks of Glacier National Park, thinking about each of the attendees, their breakthroughs, their voices, their stories, sending them all love as they travel home. This time, I chose to sit by the fire. Hearth felt necessary, especially at the end of the retreat season. One of the ranch staffers joined me, relaxing around the fire, reflecting on the magic of it all.
She said, “What are you going to do for you now, Laura? What’s your writing dream?”
“My writing dream? Uh…”
She added, “You were talking at the end of last season about finally finishing off the space over your garage for your writing studio. Did you end up doing it?”
It was an innocent question, but I took it as a naked assessment of my personal BS. These people are the most present humans I have ever met. They are made of intuition. Having the mirror turned on me is not my comfort zone. I wanted to send back my proverbial oysters. But they were so lovingly given.
Instead, I fell into an old personal “hymn” of sorts: “Oh, I’m a flexible writer. I can write wherever. The studio would cost too much. Plus it’s home to any number of pack rats. I wouldn’t want to send them out into the world with their little hobo sticks. I’m fine writing…wherever.” The words tumbled out, rote, but in my mind, I smelled a lot more than pack rats. And I’m pretty sure she did too.
I knew this “wherever” well— I’d designated it as my writing “space” for years. I told myself that this liminal creative space was a moveable feast. I’d memorized a whole mantra around this “wherever”: create it and the sacred will follow. But sitting there with such a pure human, so post-retreat open, I thought: How about it, Virginia Woolf? How about that room of one’s own? Did I have some sort of strange relationship with lack, in this regard? I’d prided myself on the fact that I’d written in eaves under staircases, in closets, in cock-roach-infested rentals, guest bedrooms, in my car between baseball and soccer games, in my bed (too often), at my kitchen table, in cafes, hotels, airplanes…countless forms of wherever for years. Wherever was part of my writer’s identity. But why?
So I looked to this brilliant being for answers to a question I’d forgotten how to ask. “Can you remind me what I said about the studio space last year? I’ve totally blocked that dream out of my mind for some reason.”
Her eyes danced at the opportunity to recall such a lush dream.
“You said that you needed a space that’s just yours. That’s new to you. That doesn’t hold any old energy or memories. A place that hasn’t belonged to anyone else. A place where you can stretch out and do yoga and listen to whatever kind of music you want as loudly as you want. A place where you can move around instead of being so strapped to your computer. Dance. Sing. Play your guitar when no one’s listening. Make your tea on a new stove with a new kettle. A new clean slate.” She was giving Atticus a run for his money. And maybe it was because I was so retreat-open and raw that I listened. Really listened. The teacher needs to be a student.
“I said all that?”
She offered a wide-eyed, loving blink. “Yeah.”
This woman knows me in a way that only a very few do. I can’t pretend that my life is working any better than it actually is around her. She sees through veils and lives in wisdom. So I fought every bit of discomfort. My arms wanted to cross themselves over my chest. My feet wanted to walk me out of the room. My mind wanted to make up excuses for why I needed to get back home.
But this person saw my fear and stayed with it. “Why don’t you do it? I bet the guys might have some time this winter.”
By “guys” she meant the people who built the glorious ranch where I hold my retreats. Every inch of this place is put together with such love, care, intention, craft. I’ve never found a place, in fact I can’t imagine a place, that is so congruent with how I lead all things Haven. I wouldn’t have it any other way and either would they.
She smiled in that knowing way of hers. Only not attached. Just a conduit of truth. And maybe it was because of her knowing smile that something shifted in me. Something heavy and old and even mean.
I thanked her for all of her loving care of my retreaters, and of me, and when I went outside, lo…there were the “guys.” It was odd to see them there in that moment. They’re rarely around during a retreat. They know it’s just our group vibe and they respect it.
“Hey, guys. I’m just wondering…” My heart quickened in that before-and after way. When a fog lifts and you finally give yourself permission to say yes to a big dream. “Any chance you guys have the time, or interest, to fix up over my garage? Make a writing space for me? Nothing too fancy. But special. Sacred. You know. I know you know. Just look at this place! It would be such an honor to have your craftsmanship on my new writing space.” And then the idea branched and leafed as do all essential ideas if you allow them to give themselves to you. “And also…a writer in residence space. For alums of my different Haven writing programs.”
I was sure they’d smile kindly, and say that they were full to the brim with jobs, as all the trades people are in the valley these days. Instead, they looked at each other and said, “We might be able to swing it. Why don’t we stop by and check it out.”
That’s when it got real. When you finally put words and intention to something…I’ve found that things start happening.
It’s been a year since that conversation. Since then, the “guys” have created the most beautiful version of that space that I could ever imagine. It’s like a cathedral. Or an overturned boat. Truly sacred space. We felt our way through all of it— by walls, by floors, by tiles, by cabinets, by counters, by closets, by bathroom, banister, stairway, doorknobs, cabinet pulls, fixtures, the way light hits the space and how to honor it. And so much more. They hung art for me. They suggested where to buy locally and conscientiously. I knew it was a perfect match when one of them said, upon first glance, the place still full of pack rat nests and old, great grand somebody’s great grand broken chairs: “I like the way it feels in here.”
They could feel and see it when I still couldn’t. However are we to dream our futures alive when we are still bowing at the altar of the past?
And I realized that this space over my garage had become a vestibule for holding on to the past. Nobody remembered the original plan— the floorplan my four-year old and I had drawn with crayons on butcher block paper all those years ago. Nobody remembered, not anyone who was living anyway, that this was going to be “Mama’s writing room.” Instead, life happened, and the space become the graveyard for the bones of old dreams, broken by divorce, the dollhouse my parents had built for my siblings and me and that I’d re-decorated after a brutal late term miscarriage, a doll house they’d once loved but which had eventually lost its luster. A holding tank for old stories told by generations in the land of lack. Poverty spirit. We don’t give ourselves such grandiose and indulgent gifts. We do without. You can write ‘wherever.’ ‘Wherever’ is where you belong.
And standing there with these illuminated humans…it became clear: was this lack-land all a lie I’d memorized as truth? I mean…what if I took out a loan? What if saying yes to the writing studio wasn’t as impossible as I thought?
Two weeks later, it was all systems go. I was in a daze.
My adult kids were ecstatic. They couldn’t wait to get it all, finally, out of there. Out with the old. Those weren’t their stories. They never met great grand someone. They were never told to live in lack. A writing studio for Mom? A writer in residence for her Haven Writing Retreat alums? Bring it! I didn’t realize how my burden had become theirs. I needed to let go, if just for them.
“But what about the dollhouse?” I said, bursting into I’m sure ugly, clingy, tears. They had no idea about what it represented for me historically.
“We’ll build our own kids’ dollhouses. Pack rats have been living in that thing!”
That thing? It was as good as saying, We want the future. Not the past. Please let go so that we can too. It’s time.
I agreed. But meekly.
There was nothing meek about what happened next.
My adult children brought in the twenty-year old troops. They parked their pick-up trucks under the studio window. And I waited inside the house, huddled on the couch in blankets, while they heaved and ho-ed all of it out the window, replete with Lord of the Flies tribal chanting…and hauled it away to salvage. I felt legless. Storyless. It wasn’t good or bad. It was just…new. Which was apparently what I’d wanted in the way of a writing space. Brand new. No memories. A clean slate. I wondered if I’d be able to feel good about this huge decision or if I would instead berate myself for it. Punish myself, even. The old echoes: don’t be selfish… I shook those words away. This new studio had things to teach me. I had to remain open to it, even if it was so counter-intuitive.
Every evening for a year, after the “guys” left, I went up to the studio to see the progress and digest it. Like Michelangelo who believed the sculpture was in the stone, I ran my hands over every surface, feeling it, thinking about what it might become. What it wanted to be. I walked the thirty-six steps from my house to the end of the breezeway. And I opened the door to the stairway and wondered: what will it take to claim this passage as my way into my muse instead of scattering her in the ‘wherever?’ What will she be like in this spate of space? This newness? This new story of us? How do I honor us in this new way? How do I create the right welcome? The right…permission.
And then one night, instead of walking up the stairway, I stopped short of them. It actually felt like the stairway was stopping me. Like it was reminding me of everything I knew but had forgotten in the way of sacred writing space.
In that moment, I flashed on the staircase at Shakespeare and Co. bookstore in Paris, one of my personal meccas. The first time I went to this bookstore, I was nineteen. Hemingway had gotten his mail there. Sylvia Plath had napped there with cats in her lap. The staircase was painted with words that ran from bottom stair to top. It had taken my breath away because it was the exact thing I had needed to read at that moment of my life, still mired in those childhood myths.
I wish
I could show you
When you are
Lonely or
In darkness
The astonishing
Light
Of your own
Being
That’s what I would do with my studio staircase. That’s the call that I wanted to answer in this new space every time I ascended those stairs.
I ran it by my son and daughter the next day. They want this to be sacred space for me. I trust them in this. Plus, I’d taken them to Shakespeare & Co. in Paris not long ago. I’d shown them the staircase and they’d marveled in it too.
They both said, “That’s perfect for your writing studio, Mom.”
So tomorrow, they’re coming over and we’re going to create our version of this staircase. When we get it done, I’ll share it on social media.
For now, I hope you’ll ask yourself this question and not wait until your knowing, loving friend puts your feet to the fire in her own loving way:
What would it take to finally get over your old stories in the land of lack and no…and bring yourself into an abundant yes? A loving friend who knows your truth? People who can see your vision when you can’t? Just a shift in perspective? Whatever it is for you, I wish it for you. Mostly, I hope you will allow it when it comes.
I hope that you will read these words and know the “astonishing light of your own being.”
by Laura Munson | Jan 28, 2022 | Motherhood
Last fall, on a family Zoom call with my adult children, my twenty-five year old daughter said,
“Let’s do Christmas differently this year. Let’s not spend money on presents or decorations or on our big Christmas party. Let’s have an experience! Just us.”
My twenty-one year old son said, “I agree. We have enough stuff. Let’s go somewhere and have an adventure!” And then he added, “Just us.”
It seemed like there was a bit more to it from both of them. A hint of: while it’s still just ‘us.’
I’ve never pressured them to get married nor to have children, but they have said repeatedly, unsolicited, since they were little, that they want to one day be married and have children. And in that moment looking into their cyberly translated faces, I realized that if this was to be true, the window for “just us” time might very well be closing in. Who knew how life would unfold for any of us, but it was true that twenty-year olds can go from being “under your wing” to fully fledged fast, and with that full-fledging comes responsibilities. New people in their lives, new commitments, new places, new roles, new traditions. New identity. New iterations of “us.”
I, of course, want that for them, if it’s indeed what they want. I have never been a grabby, helicopter-ish mother. But the more I considered their “just us” point on that Zoom call, the more I felt something like desperation…tinged with a bit of panic. I’d held our “just us” so dear for the last decade. Perhaps it owed to the fact that when a family with two parents in it becomes a family with one parent taking on new, foreign roles…and pulls it off against the odds…there’s a bit of a victory dance in order. A deep bow.
Maybe that was part of their plea? Or part of why I heartily and happily and quickly shed my traditional holiday contortions and said, “I’m totally open to that! Where do you want to go? What adventure would you like to have this Christmas and New Year? I have a special fund that I’ve been saving for something like this.” Maybe that “rainy day” was here.
With gaining emotion, I couldn’t resist catering to the pressing shelf-life of this “just us.” In fact, the more we discussed it, this trip/adventure felt like a necessity. One, lovely, memory-building, and even lavish, “last” adventure. It stopped me flat: This really could be the last time that we have a rich family adventure without anyone else but us. In our weird humor and propensity to laugh at only things we feel comfortable laughing at, just us.
After two years of a global pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns and travel restrictions, it even seemed dire. Afterall, the Delta variant was calming down. It seemed like the exact time to make this bold move into trusting the wider world again, and ourselves in it. Who knew what was around the corner, Covid-wise, on top of the next chapter of our individual lives? And we are travel people. I raised them this way. They took the baton. Now who were we out there in the world?
That pitter-patter of an ensuing trip upped my heartbeat. So I put something on the table. “How about someplace warm? Like Costa Rica? The Bahamas? The Maldives?”
Silence. Their eyes looked away from their screens.
“Or wherever,” I added. Card promptly taken off the table. I’d learned from practice that it’s best not to project, expect, and over-plan vacations when it comes to working with young people. A mother’s heart can get so utterly smashed by teenagers and even college-aged kids.
I thought about how to present or frame this “just us adventure” and came up blank. Not because I didn’t have countless ideas. But because I wasn’t sure I knew their definition of adventure anymore. When they were little, yes. But who were these young people now in the realm of their independence? What was the best meeting point with them? It dawned on me that I didn’t really know how to co-create with them at this stage of their lives, especially when it came to the holidays. We weren’t cutting out snowflakes for the living room windows. Or deep in the woods looking for the perfect Christmas tree. Or canning homegrown tomatoes for Christmas presents. Those mothering years were likely in the rear-view-mirror.
Who were we now? This “just us.”
It seemed like questions were the way to find out. Not controlling overtures, persuasive arguments, calls to action, or matriarchal mandate like early motherhood can require. So I put it out there: “What experience do you want to have? What’s your definition of a holiday adventure?”
I saw their eyes engage again, their minds cranking.
If we were going to have a successful adventure, I needed to go slowly. Let them have a say. Listen to their thoughts. Invite them to help plan. Let go of mothering patterns from the past. This was a time for “just us” to merge our minds and dreams and create a new bond for the future. And likely even a new way to each other.
It felt wonderful and scary. Don’t overthink it, Laura. Yeah, well, that’s a very nice thought in theory, but there was a lot at stake. A lot more than how full the Christmas tree is and how thoughtful the stocking contents and how good the nog. Those were controllables. Well, except the year the tree fell down in the middle of the living room and broke most of the ornaments, a lot of them beloved family heirlooms. That went from crushing to hilarious. It’s still hilarious. Makes us all belly-laugh.
I decided that more than anything, we needed belly-laughing. Life had become so serious. Ensuing college graduation and ensuing job hunt, Covid-challenged learning and athletic events, job lay-offs, paused business moves, cancelled book tour, and on and on.
A bit of motherly history: I’ve been planning itineraries for family travel since my children were babies. I’ve always been committed to the “be” mentality vs. the “do” mentality. Especially when they’re young. I wanted them to love travel. To be happy and curious and playful in a museum. A park. A restaurant. A city street (Montana spawn), a subway car, an airplane cabin, all of it. So I made sure that there were windows to just…be in those places. To go to a cheese shop and a bakery and everyone pick out one special nibbly bit, spread out a blanket in a park, have a picnic, and people watch. To go to the Art Institute of Chicago (my stomping ground) and choose a theme. “Let’s see how many birds we can find in paintings. We’ll keep a tally and whoever spies the most gets a special treat from the gift shop.” I wasn’t much for bribery, but they both knew I couldn’t resist a museum gift shop anyway, so it was a fun-forward game rather than a greed-based one. Usually they forgot about the bribe part anyway. We got lost in the fun. Mission accomplished.
But how to plan a vacation with adult children, one still in college, in a global pandemic? With restrictions changing on a dime, country by country? Would we be able to interact with locals at all, in their neighborhoods and free-flowing vernacular, or would it only be hotel employees, on their best professional behavior? We wanted the real deal. We were hoping for small B&B’s where we could really connect with other travelers and families, swapping stories in an intimate setting. We weren’t interested in big hotels, which seemed to be the only option given all the closures.
They were on the same page. My daughter said, “Let’s go somewhere easy. We always choose challenging places. I mean, I want to climb mountains in Nepal. But how about we leave that for later. I just need a break. Somewhere happy.”
My son perked up. “I can’t imagine spending Christmas somewhere warm. We should go for cozy.”
“What about Ireland?” my daughter said. “That’s cozy. Singing in pubs and sipping hot whiskey…”
“Christmas in Killarney!” all three of us said and laughed. “With aaaaaaaal of the folks at home!”
Smiles x3. More please!
Over the next few weeks, we each added our dream druthers to our group text feed. I had to hold back on naming the feed Just Us. I mean…I want them to like me.
The opinions started to roll in, warning us against international travel with this new Omicron variant. We wondered: should we wait until life was back to “normal?” It’s a big trip from Montana, after all. Lots of airplanes and layovers, and large expenditures. We took heart in the mask mandates and proof of double jabs at all pubs, restaurants, hotels, and some shops, and that the country was much lower on Covid than many others. Still…
Maybe it was because of the unsolicited opinion roll-out that we started to act tribally, the three of us. The world can’t stop because of a virus. There’s no good reason not to go. Even if we get Covid, despite our vaccinations and boosters, and have to quarantine over there, we’ll turn it into an adventure.
Here was how our text feed went: (no attributions, but you can probably figure out who wrote what)
I’ve heard that the golf courses are pretty sweet over there.
I’ve heard that the Dingle Peninsula is a must.
I’m in it for the jigs and reels and sea shanties.
Guinness.
A city hit in Dublin for sure. I miss the city.
No language barrier. I miss really connecting with people in different cultures.
Distillery Tour.
James Joyce land. John O’Donohue land. Yeats land…
Irish Whiskey tasting.
I want to ride a Connemara horse on the beach!
Pubs.
100% pubs.
Pubs for sure.
Well, we agreed on that. Pubs. In different iterations.
Mine: I was in it for the full-blown, wind-blown pub scene. Gatherings with locals, in spirted, heart-swept, impromptu singing. A tin whistle. Fiddles. A bodhran drum. An accordion. Maybe after a long hike in the countryside, or a long coastal drive. I could just see us wandering into a roadside pub, lanterns lit in an otherwise moody, grey landscape, Irish eyes smiling and asking us if we’d like something good to eat and drink. Lamb pie. Black pudding. Kindred wanderers and locals all bellying up for the same reason. Have a chat. Have a song. Have a pint. Know that they’re not alone, at least in that communal moment that the Irish are known to do so well. Maybe even get some inspiration and write the beginnings of a novel on a Guinness coaster. Go home full. New. A revived confidence in human connection. Really, my very favorite things on earth. Especially after so much isolation these last two years.
That’s what I was in it for, anyway. And I was pretty sure that these young adults’ vision wouldn’t be far away from my own. We are extroverts. Who love live, impromptu music and singing. Who love to connect with strangers. And who aren’t shy around beer. Yes, we would go for the people and the jolly public house culture—the perfect way to get to know my young adults in an informal and fun way. Plus, the belly-laughing. I pictured us belly-laughing in pubs across Ireland after long days of sightseeing.
So I booked it.
Five days prior to our departure I called a family Zoom meeting: “Well, I have some good news, and some bad news. Hint: Guinness.”
That got their attention.
“Good news! Our holiday trip to Ireland is still on!” I paused a moment, not sure how to break the rest of the news to them. “The bad news is…the Irish government just mandated that the pubs and restaurants close at 8:00. Sooo…”
Them: Silence. Perhaps some muttered expletives.
“That’s okay, right? We’ll still explore the countryside and coast. We’ll still meet people. We’ll still have fun. We’ll still be just us.”
“But will there be fun music before 8:00?” one said.
The other: “I kinda doubt it.”
“We’ll have a blast no matter what! We all need a major change of scenery.”
They agreed. I have highly flexible and adaptive children. Of that I am sure.
So on December 22nd we boarded a plane to Dublin, double-masked, double-jabbed, boosted, and with all the papers to prove it.
As I awoke to the green patchwork of the Irish countryside, I looked out my airplane window, thinking: What if the ‘just us’ that we find is really just a manifestation of the past and not a vibrant present, much less future? What if we really don’t know how to be together at all? Not having the pub scene as our playing ground will have us really present with one another. I hope that’s a good thing. Jet-lag messes with me. I shook it out of my mind and put on my best “just us” face.
What I didn’t quite bargain for, was the large amount of driving I’d signed up for.
On the other side of the road. The steering wheel on the right. And while both of my children are great drivers, the rental car agency wouldn’t approve them, given their age. So it was all me. And that was okay. I’m a confident and good and adaptive driver. I mean, I drive Montana roads all winter. I can do anything, right? I thought, as I nearly backed into a post leaving the parking garage. I was hellbent on not being your typical clueless American driver. I’d get this other side of the road thing figured out in seconds flat. Just you watch me. I stared into the first Dublin round-about with steely reserve. And then the next. And the next.
I’ll paint you the picture; spare you the details:
It was roundabout after roundabout and all in the “opposite direction.” So it wasn’t just linear learning. It was a life-threatening matter of clock-wise vs. counter-clockwise. I’ve never been good with clocks. I didn’t realize that I am also, most definitely, directionally challenged. And given the time of year, each day our return drive was in the total dark, often with very little street light, giving the optical illusion that you are about to get in a head-on every time you pass a car. Stone walls on either side. No shoulder. And for some crazy reason, at the suggested speed of 80 kph? That’s around 50 mph. There is honestly no way you could drive those windy, dark roads at 80 kph. Not even if you know them like the back of your hand. Again, I’m an excellent driver and I’m here to say: People who are used to driving on the right side of the road should be required to take a course for driving on the left. And vice the verse. Serious.
On a lighter note, because remember, that’s what our little trio was going for:
Think: Mr. Magoo, circa 1970s Saturday morning cartoons.
Nary a scrape, but a couple serious close calls.
“MOM! You almost hit that SHEEP!”
“MOM! You almost hit that ROCK WALL!”
“MOM! YOU ALMOST HIT THAT MAN!”
“MOM! THIS IS THE WRONG LANE!”
“MOM! MERGE! NOW! NO! NOT IN THAT DIRECTION! GO THE OTHER DIRECTION!”
“MOM! GO LEFT! I MEAN RIGHT! I MEAN SH**! THAT WAY!” Pointing with both hands in opposite directions like the Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz. Apparently it wasn’t just me that was directionally challenged.
It’s one thing to be told where to go. But I’ve never been good at being yelled at. Even though they were correct to do so! I mean it was dangerous!
But to yell at someone who is trying like the dickens to keep herself calm…doesn’t work for me. At all. I started to retaliate. Plus, I didn’t need the stress! What about this “just us” thing? Frankly, this felt like a blood-sport version of their teenaged years. But the truth was, and we all knew it, that there was no possible way I could have done it without them. Which started to churn and bubble in me. I’m an independent, highly competent woman. Did this mean that I wouldn’t be able to pull off a driving trip in Ireland solo? Or the UK? Or Australia? And if that was true, what about more challenging places in which to drive. With a language barrier. Completely different customs. Like…Beirut. Should I check Beirut off the list? I really want to go to Beirut. Would I have to stick to New England for fall foliage or Napa for wine-tasting crawls? Was I going to be an old lady on a bus tour???
“MOM! Are you seriously considering parallel parking right now?”
“I’m an EXCELLENT parallel parker! Watch me!” Failed attempt. Directional brain explosion. “Just kidding! This is like Groundhog Day Opposite Day!” That got a laugh.
At one point my son, wearing his airplane neck pillow, dozing in and out like he was in a video game, said, pointing to his sister playing navigator in the “passenger seat” front left: “Well as far as I can see, no one’s driving the car at all. So there’s that.” And went back to sleep.
“MOM! Stop ducking and gasping every time you pass a truck! It’s freaking us out!”
“FINE! I’LL SING DANNY BOY then! Operatically! If that would make you FEEL BETTER! This driving on the left side of the road thing ain’t fer sissies!!!”
Silence. They really don’t see me on full freak out mode very often. Because I don’t go on full freak out mode very often.
Then, from my son: “What even is Danny Boy?”
“It’s an Irish song. If the pubs were open past 8:00, you’d know it well. Grrrr…”
My son chimed in again. “How do I know that song?”
“I don’t know. But every Irish grandfather sings it at weddings and cries.” And then a massive semi careened by, and I held the wheel and sang in my best Pavarotti, Oh, Danny Boy…the pipes the pipes…”
“MOM! Stop singing and DRIVE!”
Son again, just before dropping off to sleep. Again: “Oh I know! It’s the song that Jay sings on Modern Family.”
I wanted to be back at the hotel with a nice Irishman delivering me a pot of nice Irish tea. In front of a nice peat moss fire. The nice Irish chauffeur at the ready for tomorrow’s driving adventure.
Ha. Ha.
But there was one moment which was the confluence of it all.
And it secured our future in just the pitch perfect way, sans fiddle, tin whistles, bodhran, accordion. And with me at the steering wheel.
It was broad daylight. We were driving the Dingle Peninsula. We were wind-blown-away by the beauty. The ancient beehive huts. The ocean foam. The cliffs, all accompanied by the sea shanties we’d cued up on our playlists, pub music or no pub music. We were happy. We’d gotten over the original stress of the driving and navigational challenges and had settled into a family of three “just us” rhythm. But nature calls…and sometimes suddenly.
In tandem. “I have to pee!” They could have been five years old.
“Why didn’t you go when we got gas?”
“We didn’t have to pee then!”
“That was only like fifteen minutes ago!” Grrrrrrrr…
Of course there was no gas station in sight. We were in the middle of a windswept coast with sheep and endless loose stack rock walls.
“Can’t you wait?”
“NO! I’m going to pee in my pants if we don’t stop. Just stop!”
Grrrrrr…
I looked for a place to pull over, Montana style.
Picture a tiny car on tiny roads. Golf cart sized roads. Surely this wasn’t a public thoroughfare. So I made a varsity move and pulled into a small, muddy gulley, hoping we wouldn’t get stuck or offend a sheep herder. Surely nature’s call was universal, but leave it to the Americans to sully the otherwise unsullied landscape.
“How about here?” I said.
“Fine!” they both yelled.
They leapt out of the car and suddenly it all became hilarious. I’ll spare the TMI details, but suffice it to say that all of the stress of the driving, all the bottling it up inside of me, all of the victim thoughts of why do I have to be the only responsible adult, and likely years of unprocessed junk…combusted. I went stand-up. Full-on crazy woman. Screaming at her children on the side of the road, mocking them, flinging shotgun expletives their way, letting it all rip so over-the-top red-faced and loose-lipped that sheep were staring at me. Luckily not herders. All this from the driver’s seat.
The kids got back into the car. They thought it was hilarious. Mommy has come un-done. Their laughter put me over the edge.
As I rounded the last lap of my not-so-tongue-in-cheek rant, something to the tune of: “So if I’m not driving exactly perfectly, then you can SUCK IT because I’m pretty sure that I’m pulling off one freaking INCREDIBLE trip of a lifetime vacation JUST US! So you can go…”
And then I stopped short. Because in that moment, in the side mirror, I saw a woman walking down the lane, holding a small child’s hand, behind her, a man, with a baby in a front papoose. Where on earth did they even come from? No houses or towns for miles??? They both instinctively shielded their children from the insane woman parked in the gulley, not at all understanding that it was all a big loud ugly American Mommy joke.
So I screamed out, (because surely that would help the situation), “I SWEAR I’M NOT CRAZY! I’M JUST YELLING AT MY ADULT CHILDREN! IT’S A JOKE. WE’RE ON HOLIDAY AND WE’RE JUST BEING SILLY! I PROMISE!”
They squinted at me like I was landing an alien spaceship on their otherwise bucolic landscape.
I tried to come up with something that would make them understand but came up empty. Only this, and pointing at them with ferocity:
“JUST…YOU…WAIT!”
That was the first belly-laugh. All the stress turned into explosions of nervous laughter. That “just us” belly-laugh bloomed one after the next all the way through our holiday, and back. We shared our belly-laugh stories with our friends upon return. They got smiles. Not belly-laughs. Guess you had to be there.
And so, it was a bit sad this morning to see this news, not because I wasn’t overjoyed for pub owners and employees and all who frequent them, but because we had so much fun, so much singing, so many Irish smiling eyes, and so many family laughs…well…before eight o’clock. Pubs and restaurants are back to normal in Ireland, for now.
And despite it all, we had our own “normal.” Just us. Who knows what comes next… We’ll be there to ensure belly-laughing!
- March 23 – 27 (one spot left)
- May 4 – 8 (one spot left)
- June 8 – 12 (filling fast)
- June 15 – 19 (filling fast)
- September 14 – 18 (now booking)
- September 28 – October 2 (now booking)
- October 26 – 30 (now booking)
by Laura Munson | Sep 30, 2021 | Musings
It’s been two years since I’ve led my Haven Writing Retreats live in Montana and this month I led two back-to-back.
I was deliriously happy. I sort of expected that happiness, but not to be so totally stunned by how hungry I was to gather again and in this profound way. To be with true word wanderers again. Seekers who long for their self-expression, especially after so much isolation and physical distance. Mask wearing isn’t Montana law right now, so it was at each attendee’s discretion, and we did our best to be Covid correct in our protocol. All that said, what I saw were eight people who were truly and deeply grateful for everything. Haven attracts kind people who are emotionally responsible adults, who tend to run on the grateful side of things. But there was a new sort of gratitude that I felt from these groups. Gratitude for things like the angle of light coming through a window. Fresh air flowing through the classroom. The way the stones are stacked around the fire pit. The way the geese were practicing their migration patterns on the lake. Yes, they were grateful for the writing lessons and workshopping, the nutritious food made with so much love, the cozy nooks and expansive walking paths— all of the usual wonder of the Dancing Spirit Ranch and all that is the Haven Writing Retreat. But there was a core connection to receiving what was given to them by everything around them…and they said yes and thank you with such ease and open hearts. It was a true wonder to behold. In the spirit of that wonder, and that courage, I want to share with you the letter that I read to each group on the first night after dinner and before we retire. May it inspire your own wonder, gratitude, and courage to open your heart to your own dreams, whatever they may be.
Yours,
Laura
I woke up early this morning, thinking about the eight brave people who are boarding airplanes, trains, cars from all over the country and beyond, with a story.
Some of them might tell it to the airline agent while they’re getting their boarding passes. Some of them might tell it to the person in line next to them getting coffee. Some might save it for the moment they’re gliding over the snowcapped Rockies, so far from home and so suddenly full of wonder and adventure…turn to the person they’ve been sitting next to for the last 1,000 miles, and say, “I’m going on a writing retreat.” Some might not say it at all. They might wait until they are standing in front of the airport, looking around for another person standing with that same wonder. Identifying it in them, a little scared, a little excited, a little like they’re free-falling and they really hope there’s going to be a net at the bottom in this place called Haven.
I woke this morning with that same excitement and that same wonder. I am doing this again. I am doing this again. Eight new people. Eight new gifts in the world of self-expression. Eight new people who value the written word and who long to sit in the circle of kindreds who understand just…that. We’re all the same in that circle, no matter where our writing journeys have taken us. We are all just people willing to put our hearts in our hands, step outside of our comfort zones, be vulnerable, and give and receive support. Somehow, we know that. Otherwise, we wouldn’t gather in that circle, all the way in the woods of Montana. With strangers. But we’re not really strangers.
Every single time I lead this retreat I have the experience of, “Oh…it’s you. I’ve missed you. Where have you been? I’ve needed you.
Other people don’t get this like you do. Welcome, sister, brother, kindred.” Every single time I lead this retreat, I come apart a bit, and braid myself back together again, but not alone. I am a writer. Which means that most of the time, I am so very alone. And sometimes I forget that my stories matter. And that I have the voice to tell them. And that voice matters. I think that is really what I’m doing leading Haven and why I created it in the first place. We don’t have to do it alone. And yes, someone does care. And yes, someone can help. Help with what? To make sure you know that your stories matter. Your voice matters. And that no one can write like you. NO ONE. It’s not possible. That’s why you’re here in these woods. And that’s why I’m here too.
Every person in this room has a unique voice. Every one of you has stories. Many of us don’t feel that our stories are that interesting, or if they are, we don’t feel that we have the authority to tell them. And even if we did, we tell ourselves that other people have a better way of telling their stories. Ours don’t matter. And we gag order ourselves from saying what we really want to say, and adjust ourselves to say what we think people want to hear. That is a travesty. That is self-violence. That is not helping humanity evolve.
I want to help you find your voice and I want to help you use it to tell your stories.
Sometimes our stories are best told in fiction. Distilled reality. But in writing fiction, we are still mining our lives in some way. Mining the collective human experience of which we are a part. Sometimes our stories are best told in memoir. The world according to how it’s played out for me. And that is another kind of mining reality. But it’s still subjective to your perception of the collective human experience—the collective We. So then, writing isn’t really a solitary act. It might be done alone in a room somewhere, but it is born out of this collective human experience. So it helps to be around humans who are seekers, just like you. It helps to come on a pilgrimage to find those seekers. It helps to be in the woods of Montana where it is quiet, and the wilderness holds the wilderness of your unique mind and heart. That’s what we’re trying to access here: heart language. Whether it’s fiction or non-fiction, poetry, screenplay, plays, essays, blog posts, tweets, journal entries…whatever you write is only as powerful as your ability to access your heart language. To find the charge behind it. The flickering of energy in your intention for finding your words in the first place. And then…what’s in-between the words, and then…what’s left in their wake.
Maybe there are blocks in your creative flow. Maybe you aren’t hungry to tell your stories. Maybe you can’t remember the child you were who couldn’t wait to tell your parents what you just saw in the back yard, or what you dreamed about last night, or report to the teacher and the class what you did over summer vacation. Maybe you’ve forgotten that you had a voice in the first place.
So I’ll remind you: When we tell our stories, either in person or on the page, whether true or made up…something happens.
We access something that is powerful for us in re-visiting that story—good or bad. Or we get a feeling of fondness, of connection to the past. Or we feel an identification with that story and how it gives us cover from the world, or identifies us as part of a point in history, or a social group, or a personal affiliation. Or maybe in telling it, we can see it as something that is separate from us, so that it is no longer occupying space inside our minds and hearts, and thereby no longer running us. We can tell the story and wave it goodbye. Sometimes when we tell a story, we can see that it isn’t really true. Maybe it once was true, but not anymore. And we can exile it. Sometimes we can see that it was never true, and that gives us insights into how we process life and what we might now be holding as truth in our lives that really isn’t truth and really isn’t serving us at all.
And…when we tell our stories, and someone bears witness to them…whether they’re made up or real, there is an opening. A possibility. A portal into change—I hope change for the better. Self-expression is what moves energy through us. The energy takes form into thought, and then into words…and then something magical happens: the words hold their own energy that is no longer ours. It is of us. But it is not us. That frees us to tap back into our energy, our raw source, and bring it into new form. Telling our stories, allows us to grow and move and transform and become. And leave behind and let go. Especially when they are stories of suffering from a voice who has been its messenger for a long long time.
That’s how I look at it. Like new air. Like opening up the windows after a good rain and smelling the fresh new ozone. A clearing. And in that clearing is spaciousness. Freedom. And even delight. And even joy.
When we write our stories and share them, in whatever form they take, we are pilgrims.
I am about to meet eight new pilgrims. A bit road-weary. A bit scared. A bit excited. Just like me. In that case, I say: Welcome, kindred. You are here and you are safe. I have a room for you with a bed and a warm comforter. I have healthy food to nourish you. I have loving help to be at your back whenever you need it. I have adventures for you to take on the page and with horses and yoga and walking in the woods, should you choose to wander that way. I have new friends for you. I have the quiet of the woods for you. I have Montana for you. Now…let’s play.
Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2022!
To set up an introductory call with Laura and to learn more, click here.
2022 Writing Retreat Dates:
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March 23 – 27, 2022
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May 4 – 8, 2022
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June 8 – 12, 2022
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June 15 – 19, 2022
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September 14 – 18, 2022
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September 28 – October 2, 2022
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October 26 – 30, 2022
by Laura Munson | Jul 16, 2021 | Musings
I hope you are all having a wonderful summer. Around here, people are going out in public and gathering in large groups again. Re-entry is an intense experience after the last year and a half of social distancing, sheltering in place, not being able to see people’s smiles, not being able to hug. How is it going for you? Have you been to a restaurant? A concert? A farmer’s market? In an airport? Museum? All of the above? This is an important time in our lives to mindfully process, and to me there is no better tool than writing for doing just that. I invite you to spend a half an hour (at least) writing in your journal about re-entry. See if it sparks a personal essay, poem, or short story. The pandemic isn’t over yet, but just think about where we all were last summer… I’m grateful for gatherings. Cautious. But grateful.
Here’s what I wrote in my journal this morning:
The other night I went out for dinner with two friends who were visiting and wanted to see our little Montana town. Going out for dinner is a big deal for me these days. I used to go out for dinner at least three times a week before the pandemic. In the last year and a half, like so many of us and for obvious reasons, I’ve been a hermit. Reasons that a year and a half ago weren’t really imaginable to most of us. And so I think that there is a collective shell-shock ripping across the country and across the globe, where places have opened up, as we re-enter. Some people are running out to lap up humanity with all their might. Others are tip-toeing back into it. I’m one of those people.
I’m lucky enough to live on acreage in Montana, and so when I’m not making dinner for twenty-year olds, this time of Covid has been one of deep indoor and outdoor solitude. It’s been lovely in so many ways. But I’m an extrovert. I need other people’s energy to sometimes find my own. And the other night, a dinner in town with visitors, where I could see the waiter’s facial expressions as she described the specials, where I could wave and smile at an old friend across the restaurant and go over for a hug and a how the heck have you been???…where I could enjoy my visitors and introduce them to the locals who were streaming into the restaurant like they’d just emerged from a Rip-van-winkle-esque nap…was sublime.
And then it got sort of horrifying. Or should I say, I got sort of horrifying. At least to my Covid-era, hermit self.
Post dinner: “If you really want to see our town, we should at least check out this one bar. It’s where all the locals go. And not just to drink, but to see music, play ping-pong and shuffleboard and pool, eat with their families. All the signs on the walls are failed businesses. I knew most of their owners. People come here to dream, and some dreams die, but the spirit of those dreams lives on in this town always. And this is one of its hubs. I’ve been coming here for thirty years for all different reasons. There’s a graduate plaque to my kids on the ceiling, if you can believe that one. Long story. Let’s just…pop in.” For some reason, I had tears in my eyes. I mean, it was like I was talking about my deceased grandmother. It was like I could walk in that door and see her again, even if just for one hour. See something familiar and playful and loving and the big one: local. “We won’t stay long.”
Famous last words.
But it took a minute for me to open that door. It took more than a minute. It felt like trying to get the courage to jump off the high dive, never mind dive. Or even just to find the courage to walk up the ladder. I stood outside, collecting myself. And then…I took in a deep breath and opened the door.
I was immediately overwhelmed. All of those people. So close to each other. Doing all the things that we’ve refrained from doing for over a year. And the place was throbbing with music. I guess I didn’t really understand that music is happening again. I didn’t really know that crowds like that are happening again: maskless people all in one sweaty Montana version of a mosh pit. I kept thinking: I don’t think Fauci would like this. Maybe I should leave. But then the music and the energy swooped me up into it. I’m vaccinated so I felt safe. But it was more than that. It was that I felt a powerful pull to be part of humanity. To have fun. To celebrate. To retrieve what we’ve lost. And if our country is for the most part legally wide open…well…
It just so happened that the most fun band in our town was playing on the stage. They sing all 80’s tunes with MTV videos behind them, in full Devo-esque costumes. People were going NUTS! 20 year olds who didn’t even know the words were going nuts. Seemed like every local in town was there, dancing on benches, jumping up and down on the dance floor, clapping and singing their lungs out with their hands in the air, like a long war was finally over.
Only this “war” isn’t over yet. And there are plenty of people in our country who aren’t vaccinated. But that’s another story that goes on an op-ed page. Not here. This is about what it felt like to be around unabashed joyfulness, gratitude, community, silliness, spontaneity, and a whole lot of talent: all things we’ve been deprived of for a long time, outside of the goings-on in our own living rooms. I haven’t had that much fun in…well I can’t remember.
So I danced. And danced. And sang. And sang. Until my voice was gone and I was coated in salty sweat and it was time to go home. I woke up the next morning feeling new. Young. Relieved. Happy. And I wondered: can I do this again? Is it safe? Is it stupid? Am I being responsible? Am I being brave?
None of us really knows. What we do know is that we need each other. We need music. We need to dance. We need to connect. We need our community. We need to see those smiles again. This weekend I’m going to an outdoor music festival. We’ll see how that feels. Again, I’m going slowly.
If things shut down again, I’ll do what I did last time: I will abide by the rules. But things are open. And I need to live. Can you relate? Please share your own stories here. We need to help each other re-enter, if re-entering is right for you. And the other night…it was right for me.
by Laura Munson | May 16, 2021 | Motherhood
Now booking Haven Writing Retreats this fall!!
There’s still room…but spaces are filling fast. People are STARVED for the healing power of small gatherings, writing, self-expression, and Montana…
Click here for more info and to set up an introductory phone call.
- September 8 – 12, 2021 (still room)
- September 15 – 19, 2021 (one spot left)
- October 27 – 31, 2021 (still room)
As seen on Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper
Well…it’s over. I took off my apron today and the house is quiet again. Just a 50+ year old and two white dogs staring into each others’ confused eyes.
Goodbye to our “Long Spring Break,” as my 21 and 25 year old like to call it.
My young adult children have been home, for the most part, since March 13th 2020— the day I prematurely ended my book tour, came home to Montana, and bought beans, rice, and toilet paper like everyone else. The day I realized I didn’t have a job until some blurry time in the future when people can come on writing retreats in Montana again. The day my son realized that he didn’t have a baseball season or a college life. The day my daughter realized that she didn’t have to pay a Queen’s wage for rent in San Francisco, and could work remotely from her childhood bedroom, replete with PB Teen décor and plastic Breyer horses.
That first night of our Long Spring Break, we sat at the kitchen table and I spoke to them like a football coach— loud, strained, focused, and severe. And afraid. I’d never used that voice before. They looked at me like I was an alien. I was. I didn’t know how to parent young adult children. They had fledged, whether or not I liked it. And I’d gotten used to their new lives and my own.
I did know how to cook for adult children, however. Make the house pretty for the holidays. Stock the refrigerator to pre-empt hangry how-could-you We don’t have any sandwich meat??? eruptions. I knew how to take my young adult children on vacations and laugh with them and relax with them and explore with them. Not knock on their doors to ask them what this Zoom thing is and how to use it, only to hear, “Hang on! I’m on a conference call.” Or “Hang on! I’m in class.” Just standing there in the upstairs hallway in my pajamas with two closed doors and two kids on Zoom, and me with no Zoom knowledge and knowing I needed that knowledge in order to create a new way to work. Only to find out that we don’t have enough wifi for all three of us to be online. So guess who took priority? The one with a job, and the one in school. Not the suddenly jobless mother.
Fear set in. Suddenly I wished I’d been more Ma Ingalls and raised my kids more like the homesteaders who lived off this land in the 1800s. We were more “gentleman” homesteaders. We’ve liked our electricity and running water. I mean…what if the sh** really did hit the fan? And we were on these 20 acres, with no real working homestead skills? It’s true: I know a lot more about rural living than most of the people I was raised with in the suburbs of Chicago. But if we were really looking at surviving out here, the three of us…? I wonder. We only have water if we have electricity, given our well and its electricity-driven pump, and the power goes out seemingly at will. We live miles from town so suddenly our world became our 20 acres and we had to start thinking like homesteaders. I was sorry that I’d given away my old horse. He’d be a champ in all this. No longer was there anything fancy in our freezer or pantry. Like lamb. Or scallops. Or avocados. Turns out, you can do a lot with beans and rice. Suddenly I was buying vegetable seeds, never mind hand sanitizer. There wasn’t any left on the shelves anyway. Suddenly I was thinking about the illusion of power.
And with all of that…came all of them. The 20+ year-olds. All knocked out of their lives as they’d been living them.
They needed a place to shelter in place. And I never would have dreamed how much I needed them. Their confidence, their strength, their willingness to help, their gratitude. And yes, each of them with their own form of Montananess.
A few of them knew about trucks. Others were great with an axe and a maul and a hatchet. All of them knew how to make a mean bonfire. Of course they did. I knew that there were springs on my property that the homesteaders used. If we needed to fashion a pump and carry water, I knew that they could. And would. Maybe we’d start a commune to wait this out and I’d be their Ma Ingalls.
They came willing to help, but also like 20+ year olds do: hungry. They came with their Montananess too— with tents and sleeping bags in their trucks—the ones their mothers drove them to pre-school in, now banged up and looking a lot like the way we all felt. They were smack dab in the middle of their happy college years. Some of them had planned to go abroad. Others had hard-won internships in cities. Some of them were loving their classes and teachers and illuminating conversation. All denied.
Suddenly the only thing that made sense to them was land. Montana land. Old friends. And a house where they could hang their socially-distanced hat for a while “until things get back to normal.”
I always told my kids that it would happen. “Someday, you’ll actually like living out of town. Someday you and your friends will love this cozy house and this firepit and our land. They’ll want to be here. Mark my words.” Their eyes would glaze over while I went on and on about this house that we built and have lived in for now 20+ years. With all its happy scars from country living: the floors scratched by dozens of dog nails, dents from highchair-flung sippy cups, and handprints on the ceiling from post-mudpie couch traversing. Good clean fun.
Well, I suppose you could call our Long Spring Break “good clean fun.” Suddenly they were hauling cedar chips to spread around the fire pit, and positioning camping chairs around it to “make it nice.” They put beauty into this thing called sheltering in place. These are respectful kids. They say please and thank you. They clean up after themselves. Sometimes when I join them at the firepit, they chant “Laur-A Laur-A” and that makes me ridiculously happy. (There may be beer involved. They’re college kids. And they’re of age. And they stay put. It was a different story when they were underage. Ma Ingalls is a lot more tolerant!)
But what they seemed to like even more than their red cup adventures and bonfires, was the fact that they knew they were living in an extreme time in extreme beauty, and never had they felt such gratitude for it. I saw it in their eyes. They found snow wherever they could and they played in it, with or without a chairlift. They were suddenly happy to UP-hill ski and take one long, luxurious and deserving ski DOWN instead of constantly checking how much “vert” they’d gotten after a high-speed quad lift up the mountain, and super-fast “shredding” in the “pow pow” down. That was in March.
Then when the snow melted, the backpacks came out. The kayaks. The “Bye, Mom. We’re going into the Bob Marshall Wilderness for a 5 or 6 day backpacking trip. There won’t be any cell phone service. We’ll text when we’re on our way back.” And I just sat here, watching this parade of young seekers. “Getting after it” as we say around here, but now they truly were. And yes, they’d return, pitch their tents, make those bonfires. Get out the grill pan. Bring out the hamburgers or the chicken or the fish they’d caught. I’ve never heard such laughter. They needed that laughter and they needed each other and they needed some land to hold their loss and their fear of their futures. And their fun. It might even be…that these young adults needed me. That…felt new. And very very good.
Then summer ended and the cold came and so we took the fun inside. The same pod, all Covid free. All very careful to remain so. There began the slumber parties and the endless cooking. I pretty much wore an apron the whole time. By then I’d pivoted my career and was able to take my work online, and shower our little pod of 20+ year-olds with as much kitchen love as I could. And that’s a lot.
Over and over again I heard “Thank you so much!” “Can I help?” “What can I do?” Over and over again I showed them things that they didn’t seem to care about when they were teens. Like how to cut an onion. How to stretch and fold sourdough. How to make smashed potatoes. Anna potatoes. Any potatoes. 20+ year-olds really like potatoes. Guitars came out. The lonely piano was played by fingers that hadn’t touched ivories since Suzuki days. They dug deep into the game drawers and laughed as they pulled out old Nerf gun pellets and superballs and race cars and yarn. Up came Sorry, Clue, Monopoly, Scattergories, Taboo, Scrabble, puzzles.
The kids came home and the house started moving— the ping pong table, the firepit, the garage, the game drawer, the instruments, the kitchen, the hearth.
This was the part I loved most: When the kids got too cold, or too hungry, or the smoke to eye-stingy, or their bladders too full, they came into the house. To a kitchen full of food and a woodstove full of flame, and they plopped down on the couch and talked to me. They wanted to talk. Yes they’d spent all day skiing or climbing mountains or on the river, but they knew that all of this would one day stop. And life would resume. And what would that be like? Who would we all be after all of this? Did they really want to go back to college and leave Montana? Did they really want to go back to a bashed and bloodied world? Was college even necessary? Were we all better for the pandemic? Had we learned things that we needed to learn? Of course we had. Mostly, what I saw, was that they had learned true gratitude. Deep, raw gratitude.
It felt important to remind them, when they were really down in the dumps, of what it was to live in a time of the Draft. My father, a man from a small industrial town in central Illinois, was drafted out of his Harvard Business School dream during World War II after only one semester, and thrown into basic training, not knowing if and when he’d be sent overseas. He never quite got over that.
“Yeah,” they’d say, in somber tones of honor. “At least we don’t have to worry about that.” Pre-pandemic, I don’t think they’d stop to ponder that. Really ponder that. And honor it.
I have to believe that this pandemic pod has lived it with memories that they never would have given themselves if it wasn’t for this uncertain world. They made their world certain and took it to the mountains, rivers, lakes, and yes…to my 20 acres. They laughed and played and had long talks and real thank yous and tearful goodbyes when their colleges/workplaces opened up and it was time to go back to their other lives.
The house is empty now. With one 50+ year-old woman and two white dogs in it. The apron is covered in flour and grease, hanging on the broom closet knob. I’m not going to wash it for a while. I miss being their Ma Ingalls. I miss them. But I’m glad they are out in the world again, whatever that world has to offer them. I know that they will seize it like they never would have, pre-pandemic. But I also know that they are better for having had each other during this time. And this land. And even me.
I know it, because just now, I found a circle of heart-shaped rocks by the fire-pit.
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