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.
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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 | Mar 14, 2021 | Musings
This week…it finally happened:
I got out into the actual world of “adulting” as my twenty-year olds call it, versus the virtual one. In one year I haven’t been on one flight. I haven’t gone into one government building, one box store, one large supermarket. I have a “town day” and that’s Thursdays and it consists of going to a small market for groceries, a Pilates studio for a one-hour private session since that’s all they’re offering right now, the drive-thru lane at the post office and at the bank, and once a month to the drive-thru at the credit union to pay my mortgage. Then back home to my world of, shall we then call it, “hermiting.” But this week I had to emerge because I had to go to the DMV to get license plates. I’d put it off for long enough and my temporary plates were about to expire. I really didn’t want to go to the DMV. I really didn’t want to be around humanity for obvious pandemic reasons, but also because I’ve grown to like my isolated life. I feel safe in it: my land and my house and my pantry and my commute from bed to office (yes I finally got out of my bed). I’ve liked the peace of a pandemically paused world. But damnit, I had to go to the polar opposite place from my little sanctuary: the DMV. And I dragged myself, cursing, all the way there.
It wasn’t the sort of get-in-and-out-quick situation that I’ve been living for the last year. I had to wait. Of course I did. That’s the nature of the DMV. You pick a number. And you wait, smack dab in the throng of humanity. I haven’t waited anywhere in a year unless I’ve been in my truck. In this case, we were waiting in the parking lot staring at a sign with numbers on it until our number got close and then we were allowed inside. My number was H15. They were on G39. I groaned. And a maskless guy wearing a skull cap and a leather jacket that said Blood and Sacrifice with a bleeding skull said, “It’s moving pretty slow.” I hoped that he wasn’t the sort to go into the DMV without a mask, never mind Congress. I re-adjusted mine, snug.
Then another maskless man wearing a T-shirt that said Rock Paper Guns I WIN walked toward me and didn’t stop at six feet. Smiling, he said, “Looks like we made it through winter. That was a long one. My driveway is an ice-skating rink this time of year.” Talking winter to a Montanan is like talking rain to a Londoner. “Mine too,” I said, backing up a few steps. Everyone else chimed in about their driveways, the masked and the maskless. It felt like the first blush of ice beginning to melt.
Then a woman in a neat sweater and pleated pants, wearing a paisley mask that matched her blouse, came up to me and gave me her unused number H5. I almost started crying. It was like she’d given me the vaccine itself. “I’ll pass it on,” I said. “Your random act of kindness.” She smiled and climbed into her white, clean, SUV.
And I started to get a feeling low in my belly that I’d forgotten all about. The feeling of being part of the collective.
Not just heads on a screen but real live moving whole bodies, regardless of our differences. Everyone is the same at the DMV. And though I wished everyone would please mask up until this thing is truly over, whether you’re “sick of it” or not…I was still shockingly glad to be standing in that exact parking lot.
And then it got sort of…well…fun. Because why not? Why not play a little? After the year we’ve had. Why not treat a moment like this when you are required to be part of the collective a little like you’re waiting for a hot dog at Wrigley Field or Fenway Park. And you all really love baseball. Even though you might not agree with the ump’s calls. Maybe it reminds you of your grandfather and summer and being a kid. I bet these guys had grandfathers. I bet they like baseball. I bet they miss baseball. Maybe they’d come to one of my son’s games over the years, even. I’d seen all sorts of interesting T-shirts and jacket decals in those stands. Still, we cheered pretty much the same.
The sign said for the H1-H10 to come on inside. I ran my hand under the hand-sanitizer and went inside the DMV. It was almost sacramental. Almost.
Apparently H3 and H4 had had other things to do because they were no-shows so my turn came fast. The guy at the window was chatty. I asked him if there was a license plate that raised money for Glacier National Park or endangered animals. He said, “If you get the endangered animals one it’s harder for law enforcement to read it. There’s a grizzly bear on it and their lights glare up against it and they can’t see the numbers. Plus the grizzly bear is cool. It’s spendy though. Forty bucks.” Sold! Even though he didn’t mention anything about how my forty bucks helped endangered animals. I felt like I was shoe shopping. I haven’t been shopping for much more than chicken, spinach, potatoes, and box wine for a year. Now the stirring in my belly was ringing in my ribs. Random acts of kindness. Random chats with strangers. I’d missed it so!
I didn’t want it to end.
And the people in the waiting room didn’t seem to mind. They chimed in. They wanted the bear too. We joked about the license saying Dan before the number. A woman wearing a sequin mask like it was Carnivale in Venice asked me if my truck is a man or a woman. And I said, “A woman, of course.” And she said, “Well you can call her Danielle then.” That made the guy in the Blood and Sacrifice leather jacket laugh. He still wasn’t wearing a mask even though it said No Entrance Without a Mask on the door. I almost said something, but then I saw the bleeding skull on his leather lapel and realized that I was wearing a tie dye mask and that maybe I should leave it alone. I tend to get into trouble when it comes to decency and I really didn’t want trouble with this guy. Leave that to the chatty guy at the counter behind the bullet proof glass.
The maskless guy smiled at me and said, “Say hi to Danielle.” He had a nice smile. It was nice to see a smile. I smiled back. Why not? When I went to the door I saw some other people not wearing masks in jackets that matched his. Must be his buddies. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my original number and said, “Anyone want H15?” One of them said, “I’ll take it.” And I said, “Be sure to pass it on! We need random acts of kindness more than ever. Oh, and you better put on your mask. They’re enforcing it.”
I felt like the freaking mayor. I couldn’t stop.
There was a woman in a full army uniform standing in the parking lot. I said, loudly, “Thank you for your service!” She was wearing a mask but I could see her smile in her eyes.
When I got in my truck I realized my heart was pounding in a way that it hasn’t for a year. Like I’d done something. Been something. Was a part of something. Something that normally I avoid like the plague. Well, the plague is here and so I guess pretty much full house arrest for a year is due diligence enough. Fauci says to only go out for essentials and travel only for emergency. I sat there in the truck thinking about where I could go next that felt “essential.” I had half a tank of gas. How about the gas station? I hate going to the gas station but Maybe my buddy Murray would be working and I could keep feeling this way. Murray always hollers “Munson!” when I walk in like “Norm!” at Cheers. He has the exact voice of Frosty the Snowman in the Christmas TV cartoon when he says, “Happy birthday!” after being reconstituted. Murray always makes me smile. Maybe I could tell him about my grizzly bear license plates and he’d think I was cool. Murray gave me a blown glass horse once. It was the kindest random act of kindness I’ve ever received. I cherish that horse. But if he gave me that blown glass horse today…I might melt right there on the gas station floor that has said Caution Wet with an orange cone for the thirty years I’ve lived here. So I went to the gas station and pumped my gas and saw the top of Murray’s head inside and I realized I had no reason to go inside when I could pay right there, but I really wanted an excuse to hear “Munson!” I looked at the signs on the gas station window and one of them, a sign I’d glanced past for thirty years, actually came into focus. Chester’s Fried Chicken. That’s right. There’s fried chicken inside the gas station. I’ve never eaten that fried chicken. I’ve never really bought hot food at a gas station ever. Maybe a Kit Kat or something. Suddenly gas station fried chicken sounded really good. I figured it probably wasn’t locally sourced and organic but…
I went in and heard a masked and muffled “Munson!” and smiled and said, “Murray!” Then I ordered a piece of fried chicken and told Murray about my grizzly license plate and asked him if he thought that Danielle was a good truck name and we decided that it probably wasn’t. I told him I’d never named a car before. He said, “Aw, Munson, why not? Might as well have some fun in life. And that’s coming from an old man.” He did look older and I realized I hadn’t come into the gas station for a long time. “You should come in more often, Munson.” He looked truly sad. This year has been hard on all of us. So I said, “Well I might have to become a regular for that fried chicken.” He said, “It’s good. I’ve never touched the stuff but people say it’s good.” I waved at him, wishing he could see my smile.
And then I went outside and there was a guy at the pump who didn’t look very happy and his truck didn’t either. At all. Like this year had taken his heart and his home and maybe his soul too. And I said, “Hey I got an extra piece of fried chicken from inside. I haven’t touched it. Do you want it? It’s really good.” And he lit up and said, “Sure. Thanks.”
And I said, “Pass it on.”
And he said, “The chicken?” looking confused but willing.
And I said, “No. Just the random act of kindness.”
I wished then that my plates were actually on my car so I could feel like the cool, kind, grizzly, chick in her pick-up truck. Did I mention—the one thing I actually have bought during the pandemic besides organic chicken, spinach, potatoes, box wine, and new license plates is a new truck? My 2002 Suburban finally quit three days before Christmas. I’ve always had an SUV. I need a sturdy rig for my Montana lifestyle. I test drove ten SUVs. And then at the last place, I saw a used GMC Denali pick-up in the lot, said to the salesman, “What’s that?” and he said, “Only one of the best trucks ever.” So I got in, and it was love at first test-drive. I’ve never even heard of a GMC Denali and I’d never considered getting a pick-up truck. The character, Willa, in my new novel has a pick-up truck. Maybe I just missed her. She and her women were good company for eight years.
As I drove home, not actually wanting to go home for once, I thought: Maybe I need to write a new novel. Create a new place and new characters to ride out the pandemic and feel the way I feel today. Connected. Warm and cozy inside my heart for having looked into people’s eyes, whether we share the same politics, precisely because we share the same humanity. Maybe I need to get out once in a while and not get so quickly back into my truck. Maybe it’s okay to linger just a little bit and exchange some words and acts. (Masked and social distanced, please). If even to the DMV and the gas station. Maybe I need to engage in live chats with random strangers instead of online comments on Instagram with Followers. Maybe I need to think about how good random acts of kindness feel and that there’s still the opportunity for them. Maybe I need to realize that just because we’re in a pandemic, there are still ways to connect with people in the most mundane yet human way. And that perhaps, just perhaps, I need to stop using the pandemic as an excuse to be a hermit.
You know what I mean?
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Contact Laura to set up an informational phone call: laura@lauramunson.com
by Laura Munson | Mar 2, 2021 | Musings, The Writing Life
The Paperback Release of Willa’s Grove is TODAY!
My March Virtual Book Tour info is below… Join me “on the road!”
A year ago today in NYC on pub day!
An Ode to Migration:
Every year in early March, just when I start seriously considering moving to Mexico or Arizona or the Bahamas or Belize or…just anywhere that’s not Montana every-day-grey and encrusted…a sound emerges. And promises that the snow will melt and the birds will be back and the forest floor will bloom. It is the sound of the red-winged blackbird.
Every year I hear it and worry for it. “Oh no! It’s too soon! There is still so much impossible weather to come. The marsh is still frozen. There’s nothing there for you to make your nest. You will shiver and freeze in the trees. Come back in a month. Please!”
But every year, the red-winged blackbird holds court somewhere that I cannot see, scouting out my marsh for another season of nestlings and fledglings. Every year it chooses this place behind my house, as safe ground for its to-and-fro migration. This is the “to” part and for almost thirty years, it drops me to my knees. It has chosen this place and exactly this time of year. So who am I not to?
When the birds left last fall, after the way 2020 had behaved, I really wasn’t sure if they’d come back at all.
Could they sense that humanity was limping in a global pandemic? Did they want to get anywhere near our fear and our anger and our helplessness? And what about our warming planet? In 2020 style, would the climate crisis catapult and would they come back too early and find no food and die? I tried not to read articles like this one. But how could I not. The returning birds are how I know how to hope. And if I feel that way, then I’m sure much of the limping world feels that way. “Hope is the thing with feathers,” after all.
We need our birds. I’m sure it’s much more than humans which needs them. The whole eco-system needs them. But I’m not going to pretend to be a scientist. I just know that when birds fly through my world, I can believe in its goodness and its future. I wrote much of my novel, Willa’s Grove, on my screened porch by the marsh, listening to red-winged blackbirds, and so many others: ruby-crowned kinglets, nuthatches, western tanager, robin, chickadees, varied thrush, Swainson’s thrush, sora. But the red-winged blackbird is the “king of the rushes” until it’s time to migrate. It’s no surprise then that Willa’s Grove is full of migration. One editor thought there were “too many birds in the book.” So I wrote in more.
Birds, especially migrating birds, are what we need to not just hope, but to understand movement and unity. When they pass over us, they are stitching us to another place on the globe.
If we look up, we can catch the thread, as the poet Naomi Shihab Nye writes in her poem Kindness. And if we catch the thread, they thread us together. I truly believe that. Not the same with airplanes.
One year ago from today, I was revving up to be on a lot of airplanes, across the US, for two months. It was my publication day for Willa’s Grove. To celebrate, I sat in a New York City bistro eating bacalao, white bean cassoulet, and sipping on a glass of French rose. People were talking about this thing called Covid, but way over in China. And Italy. Not really in the US. I mean…a global pandemic? In the US? People had things to do and places to go and people to see and New York City was as forward moving as usual. I asked the waiter to take a photo of me. I look very happy in that photo. I finished lunch and went to the iconic Strand Bookstore, and lo…there was my novel. And my memoir too. I signed them and asked the bookstore clerk to take a photo of me. I look so happy in that one too. That night I did my first event. It was full of fans and friends and Haven Writing Retreat alums. I got to read from my book and see its messages coming alive. I got to sign books with personalized, loving words. I was in my element. I’d wanted to publish a novel for decades. It took me eight years and nineteen drafts to get Willa’s Grove where it needed to be. The picture from that night’s event is the happiest of all.
At that night’s event, I read a section about Willa finding a migrating dead snow goose on the banks of Freezeout Lake, with its heart cut out of it and placed on its white breast. About how Willa, a newly grieving widow, lies down next to it, and weeps, and falls asleep out of the emotional exhaustion that grief requires of its griever. And she falls asleep also out of surrender. That gutted heart is hers too. I hadn’t planned on reading that section, but for some reason, in that New York City packed venue, I felt the need to speak migration. And how we can sometimes lose our way, and even our lives. Never could I have imagined what was about to happen.
As Covid swept the US and the world and my book tour went virtual, I kept reading that excerpt. I wrote book club questions and included this one: Why do you think that there are so many birds in the book? People responded so differently than they did the night of the NYC event. It was like 2020 was the year they learned to look up. And maybe even catch the thread.
A year later, as my paperback version of Willa’s Grove makes its migration across the globe, I want to imagine it casting its own thread of hope.
Its messages are exactly what we need right now. That we need to come together. We need to tell our stories. We need to create the space to listen to each others’ stories. We need to talk and hear about dashed dreams and new ones. We need to be gentle with one another and to learn the lessons of the woods. And yes, birds.
Each morning I go out on my front porch, no matter the weather, and I stand there and say, “Thank you for this day. May I be _______ in it.” Sometimes the word “joyful” comes out. Sometimes “graceful.” Or “peaceful.” Or “grateful.” I’m never sure what word will emerge. But the word that comes out is the word I fasten to my day. The thread I catch. Words are that way too. They migrate.
This morning, as my book migrates in its new paperback form, when I went out to the front porch and said my morning words, something of a miracle happened. As I spoke “Thank you for this day. May I be…” the word that came out of my mouth was “hopeful.” And just as I said that word…guess what I heard? The first springtime call of the red-winged blackbird.
“Hope is the thing with feathers,” indeed.
I hope that you will catch the thread of the birds, the words, and the women of Willa’s Grove.
Yours,
Laura
“Dear Laura, I have been reading Willa’s Grove and it has been a hug in the form of a book. It has made me realize the large void in my life this last year. So thrilled that things are slowly moving ahead. Just wanted to say hello and thank you for your book. I am enjoying it so much.”
—Heidi Okada (a loving reader who reached out to me in this loving way. She has certainly caught the thread.)
My Virtual Spring Book Tour starts this Thursday
with the fantastic author advocate, podcaster, and author
Zibby Owens!
Click here for more info about our event.
I’d love to “see” you out there on the road! My March events are listed in my Events Calendar on my website here.
April events coming soon…
|
I am thrilled to announce…
Haven Writing Retreats will resume this fall!
Click here for more info. After all we’ve been through…you KNOW you need this!
Email me to arrange a call and learn more: laura@lauramunson.com
- September 8 – 12, 2021
- September 15 – 19, 2021
- October 27 – 31, 2021
by Laura Munson | Feb 21, 2021 | Musings, The Writing Life
There was a line that drifted out of adult mouths quite often when I was a child: “She’s taken to her bed.”
It was up there with “She’s let herself go” and “She needs to go away for a while and rest.” These lines usually came along with “The poor dear.”
They were the opposite from the line “sitting around and eating bon bons all day,” which I also heard a lot, mostly from my work-ethic-driven mother, and always with disdain. To me the bon bon eaters seemed like they were having a great time. They laughed a lot and sat around swimming pools with sexy looking beverages, smoking cigarettes, and took long afternoon “lie downs.” My mother took a nap every day. For twenty minutes. At exactly noon thirty. So that she could Energizer bunny-hop straight through dinner and back to her “desk work,” her typewriter keeping beat to Happy Days and Mork and Mindy and Little House on the Prairie all the way to the Carson monologue— even though she was prone to headaches. I was once told that when my mother got a headache in the middle of her many board meetings, she wouldn’t even break for a glass of water— just eat aspirin raw.
My mother is in no way a bon bon eater. And she would never “take to her bed.” Even with a pandemic going on.
She’s eighty-six now, living in a retirement community where everyone is confined to their living space, and she’s still busy. She’s taken up knitting. She’s reading a book called the Royal Secret which she’s reviewing for a virtual book group. She’s needle-pointing Christmas ornaments for her grandchildren. She’s watching The Queen’s Gambit and thinking of taking up online chess. She reads the Chicago Tribune Bridge Hand every day before she takes her walk. She finds all sorts of reasons why she needs to go to the hardware store and the plant nursery. She keeps asking me if I’ve had a chance to get my oven fixed. Or my truck. Or get a new bed. My thirty-year old bed. That squeaks and wakes me up at night. That’s lost its will to support my back, its pillow top in lumpy curds. She’s worried about my back. She knows that it hurts by the way I ow eee err on our Zoom calls. She does forty minutes of exercises for her back every morning before she gets out of bed. At five a.m. And then she gets out of her bed and makes her bed and gets DRESSED like she’s going to duplicate bridge at the club, and then goes into the kitchen to make oatmeal with blueberries and fresh orange juice. Good for her. Especially the getting dressed part.
What she doesn’t know is that my back hurts…because I’m always in my old lumpy bed.
When I get out of it, I quickly return to it. Hence it’s never made. I joke that my “commute” these days goes like this: I awake supine in my bed. I take the old lumpy body pillow from between my knees and place it against my headboard (waiting for the subway), stack the other four feather pillows on top of it (listen to a podcast on the subway), lean over the side of my bed and reach for my computer (core workout at gym), drag it upward (grab a cappuccino at the corner café— smile at the barista who knows my name and exactly how to make my foam), plop my computer on my bed (open the door to my office), make the bold move to putting myself in the sitting position (drop into my ergonomically correct office chair with a view of the Hudson), lean against said pillow stack (thank my assistant for bringing me fresh flowers and taking away the almost-dead-but-not-quite bouquet from last week), take two other firm pillows and put them on my lap (adjust my state-of-the-art standing desk), open my laptop (take three grounding breaths in through the nose out through the mouth), and begin my day.
It takes all of thirty seconds.
What she also doesn’t know is that there have been a few times in the pandemic when I’ve tossed and turned so much in the night, rearranged my pillows so often, that they’ve shed their cases and I just leave them naked. Why make another step for myself? They’re just going to come off anyway, because tossing and turning seems to be the default sleep-state these days. It’s also the reason why my sheets curl up around the mattress corners and wad up underneath me. Sometimes I just shove them off altogether so that I sleep (and work) on the actual mattress. That’s when I know I’m in trouble. That’s when I know that I have “taken to my bed.”
This is the sort of thing I don’t admit on a Zoom call.
Just like I don’t show anything from the waist down, unless it’s a pajama party. On Zoom calls I talk about silver linings because it’s really weird to start crying “at” all of your friends, Brady Bunch style. Air hugs suck. Especially when they’re herky jerky, or when they freeze altogether. Or when I’ve just admitted that I’ve taken to my bed and they forget their mics are all off and so I see “You poor dear” mouthed by eight women who have gotten out of bed this morning, made their bed, and put on proper pants. Like my mother. Do I tell them that I put on my “good” pajamas just for them? The ones that don’t smell. The ones with the cute powder-blue leopard prints on them because they’re so sexy. Like the bon bon eaters’ cocktails. The bon bon eaters weren’t the sort to take to their beds. The bon bon eaters would be the type to take a vacation during a pandemic. To a five star resort in French Polynesia. Or go sailing in the BVI’s because f*** this pandemic sh**. I want to be a bon bon eater. Sorry, Mom. But I do. I want to have fun again.
I wonder why I, instead, feel the need to hold some sort of self-flagellistic vigil during this pandemic.
Like I’ve been sent into a much-merited time out and am not allowed to leave my room until it’s over. Anyone feel me? Anyone feel like you’re splaying yourself supplicant on the altar of austere living? Like you’ve taken some sort of vow of celibacy mixed with a vow of rice-eating and robe-wearing. Bathrobe wearing, that is.
Wake. Make tea. Earl Grey. I feel like I’m having an affair with Earl Grey. He’s the most exciting person in my life. With the exception of my dogs. I feed and walk them more than I feed and walk myself because they take three times more of a walk, running around in the snowy woods of Montana behind my house. Come back from BIG five star outing with the dogs. Eat the other half of yesterday’s almost black banana. Less exciting. Go back to bed with Earl. Work from bed until it’s time for the news. Maybe, if I can take it, watch the news. If I watch the news, it requires wine. Box wine since it seems to last forever and I can use the cardboard to start a fire in my woodstove. Unless it’s a really bad news week and then there’s less fire-starter. Feed dogs again. If I don’t watch the news, maybe think of making toast for dinner from my own bread because that’s the one thing that I have learned how to do this last year, like everybody else: Make bread from my own sourdough starter. Before the pandemic, I was gluten free. Not anymore. I’m considering learning how to make my own butter, since that seems to be my main protein. It has .1 grams of protein in it per teaspoon, after all. I wonder how much protein is in a healthy schmear. The healthier the schmear the healthier the butter, right? When I really start to stink, I bathe. Watch Colbert not from my bed happybirthdaytome, but from the five star living room couch. Or Fallon. Sometimes Seth or Corden too. Yawn uncontrollably. Go to bed. Repeat.
This week, I actually said, aloud, to nobody: “My life has turned into Bed Bath and Bananas” which is my term of endearment for almost-said box store. I hate box stores. I’ve used the pandemic as an excuse to not go to a box store for a solid year. Silver lining indeed. The bon bon eaters go to box stores all the time and buy cute holiday tchotchkes and fresh pillowcases and bathing suits for their next vacation. They don’t seem to be worried about COVID. That said, the bon bon eaters I know are in no way anti-maskers. They all wear masks. They don’t seem to mind wearing a mask at all. They even say things to each other like “Cute mask!” Apparently they can spot each other in a crowd. I’ve pretty much had one mask all year. Not because I don’t wear it but because I obviously rarely leave the house. I’ve also gone through less than one bottle of hand-sanitizer for the same reason. It’s also the reason why I’m one pilly pillow away from developing bed sores. But if I keep going like this…they’re a-comin.
So…dear bon bon eaters: teach me.
Tell me that I’ve paid my dues. I’ve atoned for whatever was my life pre-pandemic. A year ago I was racing from city to city promoting my new novel Willa’s Grove. I’d spent a solid year prior preparing for over thirty-eight events from coast to coast and in-between. I’d plotted and planned my outfits, where I was going to get blow-outs for certain more media-genic events. I’d prepared special live workshops based on the theme of transformation in my book: So Now What Workshops. I was fully, and perhaps scarily, leaned in, as all authors are after the years of hard labor it takes to produce a book baby. From New York to Boston to Chicago to Minneapolis I went with my little novel baby, watching it work its charm and yield its messages, trying not to think too much about this thing called COVID that was this dark shadow lurking in the fray. We just didn’t quite understand what was about to happen. How could we?
And then it was March 13th. San Francisco, my next stop, shut down. And then Seattle. And Portland was thinking about it. I emailed my Italian friend because she’s one of the most sensible people I know, and Italy was newly in this thing called quarantine. She responded immediately. “The US is ten days away from being where we are. I’m telling you: Go home. Get your kids home. Stock up on beans and rice. Let go of the book tour.”
I stared at the hotel room ceiling, wept, and called my travel agent.
And home I went. Got the kids home. Holed up like the rest of the world, and proceeded to get sick. Very sick. For five weeks. There weren’t a lot of COVID tests in Montana so I left them for the health care workers. But I had most of the symptoms. Dry cough. Body aches. Pink eye. It required a lot of bed time.
And a year later…I haven’t really un-holed up.
I wonder if holed-up is my new state of mind. I fear for that if it is true. I am a woman who loves to travel. I am an extravert. I am a community builder. I am a glass-half-full person by nature. Not a take-to-her-bed type of being. I don’t recognize this woman that I’ve been this year. I’m part ashamed of her and part intrigued by her. She holds a deep dark secret and she’s slowly shedding light on it:
It turns out that I’ve wanted an excuse to STOP. To…just…be. To reduce life to its essence. To live in quiet solitude and stillness. It turns out that I’ve liked living in my bed. I’ve liked not getting dressed. I’ve liked noticing every creak in the house and the way the wind moves in the naked larch trees versus the full Douglas firs. I like measuring my life in cups of tea and glasses of water and walks in the woods.
But…I mean…dude…it’s time to get out of bed. Really. It’s time.
Even if the world still needs to stop in many many ways, we can be part of the living in a pandemic. We can move around in the world in our own social distanced way. We can move around in our homes wearing clothes and creating ritual and experiencing our space whatever it may be. Even a one room apartment has many invitations to live in it. Read a book in the sun rays beaming from your kitchen window. Eat a meal at your table with a Zoom companion who is doing the same. Put on some music and dance. Go out on the balcony and watch birds. See what they have to say about all this. And yes, get in your bed and rest. But don’t stay there.
Just ask my mother. It’s noon thirty. By now it’s time for her twenty-minute nap. I wonder if she makes her bed after her nap. I wonder if she takes off her pants.
So. To that end. I’m going to make my bed now, for the first time in a year.
It’s time to hear the echo of the woman lying in the hotel room on March 13th, 2020…staring at the ceiling and weeping, grieving the loss of the hard-won hardback tour. All those people who I would have read to and all those questions I would have hopefully answered with some semblance of grace. All those books I would have signed with loving messages about the power of women in community, the power of telling your story, the lessons of the Montana wilderness. And then all of the Haven Writing Retreats I had to cancel, all of the hungry-for-your-voice seekers who would have sat in small circles courting their muses…supporting each other in the community of heart language…which inspired the book in the first place. It’s time to stop sitting shiva for all of what didn’t happen in 2020. And honor all that did.
Because it’s happening again. The paperback of Willa’s Grove comes out exactly a year from the hardback last March 2nd. I get another chance to be the messenger for this novel that I love so much. Only this time it’s the paperback and this time it’s all virtual. And this time, people need its messages more than ever. And I’m hoping with all my heart that I’ll be able to lead my fall Haven retreats. People will need live community and the healing salve of Montana more than ever before. I pray that we can do it safely.
For now, I’m going to blow the dust off of my book tour clothes hanging in dry-cleaning bags in my closet. I’m going to actually deal with my hair. I’m going to put on boots. I’m going to perk up and yes maybe even lean in. Just not on planes trains and automobiles. But in the rooms of my own house and the rooms of my own heart. I have learned that you can still feel people on a Zoom call. You can still look into their eyes and know that you are all in this together.
And I solemnly swear: I will never take to my bed again.
As the character Bliss says in Willa’s Grove: “We want to freeze time, don’t we? But everything must move.”
And so…dear mother…dear back…dear bon bon eaters…dear old lumpy bed…as Willa and her women do at the end of the book over a rushing springtime Montana river, I am claiming my forward moving future and all that I would like to leave behind.
And to honor that, I have just…wait for it…bought a new bed. It’s a done deal. Thank you, old bed. You supported me for many years. But it’s time to trade you in for a new organic, five star mattress. New, luxurious percale sheets. New organic body pillows. And from here on out…I’m going to make my bed every morning.
Just without me in it.
Stay tuned for my Willa’s Grove paperback Book Tour events! I’m teaming up with some incredible authors and I can’t wait to share our discussions with you!
Please support your local bookstores, bookshop.org, or you can PRE-ORDER my bestselling novel here, and be among the first to receive Willa’s Grove in Paperback!
by Laura Munson | Jan 14, 2021 | How to Write, Musings, The Writing Life
From Abbe Jacobson, Haven Home Wellness Coach!
Abbe and I have known each other since high school. She is an exceptional wellness coach, and she has helped me be MUCH more kind to myself, my muse, my writing life. Abbe will be the first expert for my 8 week Haven Home Writing Course! Please enjoy her wisdom, and consider signing up for Haven Home today! It all begins on Monday, January 18th, and it’s the perfect way to start the new year, process 2020, and finally find your voice! To learn more, click here.
If you could wave a magic wand and have exactly what you needed around your health to support your passion as a writer, what would it be? A clear head and boundless creativity? A strong core and healthy back to provide a sturdy foundation while sitting or standing at your computer? A sense of calm and centeredness with limited mental chatter? The ability to focus, get into the flow, and produce a worthy chunk of writing?
What if all of this was possible without requiring marathon running, starving yourself, shunning favorite foods, or sitting in savasana for hours?
You might be thinking – get real!
But I am here to tell you that this ideal is not as elusive as you might think.
Small realistic changes add up over a lifetime. That, and a little bit of love for your beautiful body, can go a long way to helping you feel energetic, vibrant, and strong. Feeling good each day can be a game-changer.
Here are 6 strategies to help you feel better each day so that you can focus on writing!
1) Move your body.
Notice I did not say run or do CrossFit or even exercise. Just be a mover! Experiment with activities that are fun and feel good. Movement should never feel punishing or demoralizing. If you are not sure what this looks like for you, then get curious and experiment. Maybe you enjoy yoga, or walking, or dance. Whatever it may be, give yourself the chance to move each day for at least 10 minutes. Adopt the mantra: “No zero minutes!” Something is always better than nothing. Sometimes the toughest part is getting started. Ten minutes may morph into 20 and before you know it you will have established a regular movement routine. Writers, in particular, do well to create some structure around movement. Setting an alarm at the top of each hour can serve as a reminder to get up, walk around, and stretch. Or make space for movement first thing in the morning to set yourself up for feeling more centered and grounded in your body as you sit down to write. If you find yourself resisting exercise, shower yourself with some extra compassion. Harsh judgment does not produce more willpower – in fact, it shuts you down. Instead, ask yourself: “What movement can I do today that will be fun, supportive, and loving toward myself?” Be curious about the answer.
2) Reach for quality fuel that keeps you going at a nice even pace.
Gentle nutrition is the name of the game. Consider options that help balance blood sugar and provide sustained energy. Great snacks might include apple slices with peanut butter; a handful of walnuts with some fruit; hard-boiled eggs with avocado; Greek yogurt with berries. Whatever you choose, listen to your body. Is the food you are consuming making you feel good? Do you sit down to write after a meal feeling energized? Or does the meal leave you feeling lethargic? If it’s the latter, you might consider experimenting with different types of fuel until you find foods that provide you with energy and leave you feeling good. Of particular importance for writers is creating structure around meals. Set your alarm if you sometimes forget to eat. Take small bites of a snack at the top of the hour. Make a big pot of soup on Sundays so that you always have something easy on hand that provides good quality protein with colorful veggies and greens. Finally, stay mindful of caffeine and alcohol consumption. Both can cause agitation and anxiety, making it tough to feel grounded while writing. Water is your friend. Staying hydrated is amazing for your brain, your vital organs, and your immune system. Keep a glass nearby and sip it throughout the day.
3) Sleep!
. If I had to prioritize one basic habit that would provide the biggest impact on our overall well-being, it would be sleep. Without a rested body, it is difficult to ascertain what our body actually needs. A tired body sends us conflicting signals. Are we tired or hungry? Are we tired from lack of sleep or because we do not have the energy to exercise? Living in a tired body means we are more likely to overeat and move less. Lack of sleep erodes our ability to practice solid self-care and therefore makes it harder to feel good in our bodies. This has a direct impact on the quality of our thoughts and our ability to show up, do our jobs, and feel OK in the world. The first place to start with sleep is to prioritize listening to your body. A tired body is fatigued for a reason. Fatigue is your body’s way of getting your attention. Most of us are used to ignoring fatigue because that is what we do as a culture. We glorify busyness and the ability to get by on little sleep. But eventually, fatigue catches up to us. Our bodies eventually rebel, sometimes in the form of illness, weight challenges, anxiety, or depression. If you are tired, it’s time to honor your needs around this. Turn your attention to sleep hygiene. Here are some simple strategies to help you get started:
- Turn off all electronic devices early in the evening. Exposure from devices is known to stimulate the brain and keep you awake.
- Be consistent about when you go to bed and wake up each day, even on weekends.
- Exercise moderately each day to promote a good night’s sleep.
- Keep your bedroom cool and dark.
- Avoid caffeine after noon and reduce or eliminate alcohol, which is known to disrupt sleep and interfere with sleep regulation.
4) Guard against burnout.
A tired writer is a challenged writer, and your body is a wonderful vessel of information. Guarding against burnout requires staying ahead of your needs and in tune with your body. If you are waking up tired and depleted, it’s time to honor that fatigue and take it seriously (see #3). Burnout is particularly pervasive at the moment due to the current state of our world between managing our minds around COVID and political unrest in our nation. While writers find solace in taking a pen to paper (or hands to keyboard…), it is quite possible that accumulated stress between hard work and anxiety over current events can make it challenging to bounce back. Get ahead of this type of fatigue before it causes harm. Self-care becomes particularly important in this case. While finding ways to “treat” yourself can be helpful, true self-care is more about creating boundaries and systems that help you feel emotionally safe. What this might look like is different for everyone, but the boundaries should help you rest and restore while calming your brain and nervous system. Stay curious about what type of actions might help you feel grounded and centered in your body. This is the path to true rejuvenation and burnout prevention. If you are chronically tired and depleted, think about what might help you renew your spirit in a gentle, uplifting way.
5) Wellness is the foundation for doing what you love.
At the end of the day, your body provides the vehicle for you to write. Feeling better in your body means the opportunity to be more creative and prolific with words, providing you with staying power to get the job done. If you wake up feeling good, you will have more time to focus on what you value both personally and professionally. Taking small, simple action around your health each day is about supporting what’s important in your life. This is not about changing your body size or fitting into a particular pair of pants. While both might be nice, neither are compelling reasons to embrace healthy habits long-term. Instead, think about what you want to be doing 3-5 years from now. What is most important to you at this point in your life? Are there certain qualities you want to cultivate? Are there aspirations or relationships that are meaningful to you? What habits or behaviors might allow you to blossom as a writer? How would you feel with this new habit or change well established in your life? Use these questions to clarify your values around health and reflect on how taking action could support your career as a writer.
6) Be gentle with yourself.
No matter where you are today with your health, your career, or your life, self-compassion is key. Be mindful of your inner monologue. Punishing thoughts will drive the opposite behavior that you seek. While it can be challenging to wrangle with our monkey mind, try using curiosity instead of judgment. When it comes to how you treat yourself and your body, remind yourself to move toward love. The more you can lovingly accept yourself in the moment, the better chance you have of creating sustainable change.
Additional Resources:
On movement: The Joy of Movement, How exercise helps us find happiness, hope, connection, and courage, by Kelly McGonigal, PhD
On eating: Intuitive Eating, A Revolutionary Anti-Diet Approach, by Evelyn Tribole and Elyse Resch; Anti-Diet, Reclaim Your Time, Money, Well-being and Happiness through Intuitive Eating, by Christy Harrison
On sleep: Why We Sleep, Unlocking the Power of Sleep and Dreams, by Matthew Walker, PhD
On habit change: Atomic Habits, An Easy & Proven Way to Build Good Habits & Break Bad Ones, by James Clear
On defining values and purpose: Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live, by Martha Beck
On mindfulness: 10 Percent Happier: How I Tamed the Voice In My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-help That Actually Works – A True Story, by Dan Harris
Also check out the 10 Percent Happier meditation app.
For more information on health coaching, I can be found at:
www.abbejacobson.com
Instagram: @abbejacobsoncoaching
Twitter: @abbejacobson
Facebook: www.facebook.com/abbejacobson
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