I will be posting short essays from Haven Writing Retreat alums for the next few weeks... ...in hopes that you will be inspired, and mostly so that you know you are not alone. We're not going for talking points or even wisdom. We're going for truth. You might consider writing your own. The only writing …
I will be posting short essays from Haven Writing Retreat alums for the next few weeks…
…in hopes that you will be inspired, and mostly so that you know you are not alone. We’re not going for talking points or even wisdom. We’re going for truth.
You might consider writing your own. The only writing prompt I gave them was this: The Pandemic and Me. 800 words. Go for your truth.
I invite you to do the same! Writing is the best tool I know in the realm of preventative wellness, self-awareness, letting go, and dreaming your future alive. Writing heals. Telling our stories heals. Reading heals. I hope these essays will help heal you.
To that end, my next So Now What online Workshop will be on Sept. 13th from 10:00-3:00 MST. For more info and to register, click here.
Yours,
Laura
What They Mean When They Talk About Stillness by Brooke Siem
They tell me that the answer to uncertain times is found in stillness. That all I am and all I need is in there, humming. A motor run on calm. And so I sit. And wait. I breathe and chant and wait and sit. And wait. And wait.
Where are the answers?
It’s been months of stillness in Vancouver. On March 14, I led a workshop before joining a few friends for a drink in a sparse, still-open bar. Toilet paper supplies were just dwindling. Only a handful of businesses voluntarily shut down. Notices taped onto closed front doors shone bright white in the spring sunlight. Until April 1st, they said. See you in two weeks.
The notices are fading now, sun-bleached and brittle. Plants sit parched and begging behind shuttered shop windowpanes and every time I walk by them, I want to put my fist through the window out of rage frustration boredom and grab them by their stems and take them home and feed them and nurse them and love them back to life. I want to snip their brown stalks and soak their dusty soil and wait and hope and wonder if they will sprout again, if they will renew. I want to wonder if I have done enough to save them.
I want anticipation. I want that moment when a baby green bud appears on a thirsty twig. I want to look forward to it, to covet it, to feel the burst of joy followed by the satisfaction of relief. Because anticipation brings aliveness. And in a world dictated by COVID-19, there is no anticipation. Those of us who are lucky enough not to be fighting the virus are confined to a life in which there is nothing on the horizon, nothing to plan, and not an ounce of FOMO to be found. One day begets the next begets the next begets the next.
Stillness all around.
It’s been long enough now that I’ve baked what I’ve wanted to bake. I’ve crafted what I wanted to craft. I’ve been tipsy out of principle. And spite. I’ve watched Tiger King and Too Hot To Handle, played video games and board games. I picked a fight with my partner over taking the garbage out and then screamed into a pillow. I’ve walked. I’ve cried. I’ve called friends once, twice. By the third time, we’re out of things to say. “What’s new?” doesn’t do much to spark conversation these days.
I get the most melancholy around 9:30 p.m. when there is nothing to do but wind down before bedtime. I am the sort that needs to take an hour between the end of a long day and crawling into covers. In the past, this was a ritual to look forward to, a precious hour of reading or Netflix in which there was no room for guilt over what was or wasn’t accomplished during waking hours. Because there was always tomorrow. In between the calls and emails and dinners and gym and appointments and flights and meetings and lunches and birthdays and vacations and celebrations, life would be accomplished.
Now, 9:30 p.m. is no longer a reset. Instead, it is a reminder that we do this again tomorrow. Exactly this. Maybe the food is different and the music changes but ultimately, it is all just another lap around a clock. Time is a flat circle. I understand, now. A new recipe to try or a new podcast to listen to or those leggings I ordered that I certainly don’t need are all just some primal need to look forward to something, to work for something, and to mark the passage of time through the burst of release upon completion.
That release, it seems is the mark of life itself. It is the pang of hunger and the satiety of a meal. It is the clamor of war and the silence of peace. It is the despair of grief and the boundlessness of love. It is a baby green bud on a thirsty twig.
And it is gone.
What is left when it is all stripped away? What is that unsettling feeling at the intersection of knowing I have everything I need right now — food, water, shelter, toilet paper, health — and wanting to burst, to run, to click my heels and beg for a global do-over? What is in that barely perceptible moment in between when my eye catches a dying plant behind an empty store window and the primal urge to put my fist through the glass? What is in the space between my changing reflection, lean muscle morphing into softness, and the one who is watching? Or when I watch the bubbles dance as the kettle comes to a boil for the fifth time today? Or when my partner’s beard scratches my cheek at 9:31 p.m. as we settle onto the couch, just like it did yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before?
It is stillness.
That’s what they mean, isn’t it? It is not boredom. It is not depression. It is not restlessness. It is what’s left in the absence of anticipation when there is no agenda left to fulfill. It is not something to wait for. Nor can it be commanded to appear. It did not arrive with coronavirus. It has been here all along.
But it is only now that I can feel it pulsing, its rhythm never changing. Thump thump thump. Louder louder louder with each go around the flat circle. I spent so many years trying to make peace with the stillness and now I see it’s here. I want to sit with it and leave it and run away and come back again endlessly until time unfurls from the circle and days plump once again. I want the stillness to fill me like a thick sip of Barolo over conversation with an old friend, to soothe me, comfort me, hold me through this. I want to fall in love with it, to protect it. To understand that while it is precious it is also the strongest force on Earth. It is that which can never be stolen or destroyed. Stillness is the hum of all we are, the foundation that all we know is built upon.
It is all we have. And it is here.
And here. And here.
The Gift of Grace by Rebecca Gamble
The pandemic persists. This summer feels endless, though it’s only late July. My wildest imagination could not have envisioned “staying at home” these many months. I am still chasing sleep, with images of cartoon Covid dancing at the edge of dreams. Early morning walks through the rolling meadows and maple forests of Shelburne Farms have replaced indulgent breakfasts with friends at the historic Inn. Quiet boat trips with the boys, exploring hidden coves and beaches, have taken the place of dinners at our favorite restaurants. Life marches on. Slowly.
I sit in the same comfy, threadbare chair I claimed in March, watching the meadow morph from winter-worn, brown patches to vibrant spring green to the deep summer shade that beckons fall. Just as we are beginning to see glimmers of amber waves swaying in the late-summer breeze, the meadow will be mowed, an annual rite of passage into the next season. More necessary losses loom. The boys are heading back to their colleges in a few weeks, their departures fraught with uncertainty and tinged with the excitement of being part of this grand experiment. I won’t be able to visit them. Vassar’s auditorium will sit silent, the sounds of the orchestra echoing from last winter’s concert. Wesleyan’s athletic fields will be empty, my son’s senior season a mirage: Ghost runners on forest trails.
But finding joy has been a simple thing, each day filled with moments that make up weeks and months and years, and it is easy to know that many of these mundane moments will become forever memories.
I want to remember the little moments of dailiness that brought such unexpected delight. Nathan’s heartfelt but hilarious comment, when we were sharing what we miss, surprised us all. The way the boys played with Max. Texting silly emojis with my 8-year old niece. Creating our yummy, fruit-forward Quarantini, after many failed attempts. Meeting the boys’ friends from all over the world on Zoom or Face Time or whatever. Daily sanity walks in the woods. Letters in the mail. Rearranging the family room furniture so everyone has a comfortable place to stretch out, even Max. Books. So many books. The way each boy helped in his own way at dinner. How it felt to run into a friend on a walk or at the store, thrilled to have the smallest snippet of normalcy. The unmistakable aroma of bacon frying. Every. Single. Morning.
I want to remember the music that filled our house. Noah at the piano, playing Gershwin and Rachmaninoff and Debussy. Josh with his Green Day and John Williams and jazz saxophone and the many songs he composed. Listening to Songs of Comfort from the brilliant Yo Yo Ma. The music of laughter too, giggles from all corners of the house as we connected with friends. Laughing together at the dinner table as we shared embarrassing stories, in the family room watching reruns of 30 Rock and The Office, and the horrifying but hilarious Rick and Morty.
I want to remember the gift of paying closer attention to nature, spring unfolding one day at a time. Watching the fuchsia rhododendron come into bloom outside the family room window, with hundreds of bees, and one hummingbird, swarming the blossoms for days. Max and the raccoon. The miracle of my son discovering a newborn fawn hidden in the tall meadow grass. Cheering the return of the Orioles. The fox pouncing on her prey. A light breeze carrying the sweetness of lilac through the open window. Marveling at the brazenness of the coyotes stalking the meadow mid-day. The redwing blackbirds dive-bombing us as we walked past their nest. The single tulip surrounded by wild grass. The cacophony of birdsongs in the meadow, the Bobolink so distinctive, a bit like R2-D2. Discovering a mockingbird nest, with three blue speckled eggs. The softness of new grass beneath my feet. The magnificence of the pear trees in bloom.
Most of all I want to remember the grace. The grace to accept this time as the true gift it has been for our family. The grace the boys gave themselves when they had other offers but really just wanted to be at home. The grace we extended to each other to experience our grief, our losses, in our own ways. The grace we extended to friends whose anxiety levels were higher or lower than our own. The grace we gave to unaware strangers as we stepped off the trail and let them pass. The grace I gave myself to let things go, the would have/could have/should haves. To let go of my perfectionism, walking by the dirty sink, the pile of laundry, the mountain of expectations. This gift of grace is no small thing.
Rebecca Gamble lives and writes in Vermont.
