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 | Jan 23, 2021 | Uncategorized
Here is some brilliance about not just writing, but self expression, from my friend the author, author advocate, teacher, podcaster, magazine editor, and a whole lot more…Bill Kenower. Read and learn!
If you’ve ever written and actually enjoyed the experience, if you’ve ever allowed yourself to become lost in the dream of the story you are telling so much that you temporarily forget what time it is, then you have written fearlessly. In fact, writing doesn’t really begin until we forget to be afraid. So the question isn’t whether you can write fearlessly, but whether you can do it on purpose. Here are the three best tools I know for writing fearlessly every day.
The only questions you should ever ask are: “What do I most want to say?” and “Have I said it?”
I ask these questions because I can actually answer them. I will never know anything better than I know what I am most interested in. I will never be able to pay attention to something for longer than that about which I am most curious. My curiosity is the engine that drives my creative vehicle. It is the source of all my excitement, my intelligence, and my surprise. It is also entirely unique to me. There is no one on earth who knows what I most want to say other than me.
And once I know what I want to say, once I know which story I want to tell, or which scene I want to write, only I can know if I have translated it accurately into words on the page. Whatever I most want to say exists in a realm knowable only to me. There isn’t one editor or teacher or critique group member who can tell me if I have accurately translated what I wanted to share because only I know what that is; these other people, however well-intentioned, can only tell me if they like or understand what I’ve written. That is all they actually know.
If I am ever asking some question other than these two, I am not really writing. I am trying to read other people’s minds. If I am asking, “Is it any good?” I am really asking, “Will anyone else like it?” Or if I’m asking, “Is there market for it?” I am really asking, “Will anyone else like it?” And if I am asking, “Is it too literary? Is it not literary enough?” I am really just asking, “Will anyone else like it?”
What anyone else thinks of what I’m writing is none of my business – at least not while I’m writing. While I’m writing, what I think of what I’m writing is my business. I am always afraid when I believe I must answer questions that are unanswerable. And I am always fearless the moment I return to my curiosity to see where it is headed next.
Have Faith
I am defining “faith” as believing in something for which there is no evidence. This shouldn’t be so hard for a writer, really. Every day we sit at our desks and believe in something no one but us can see. In fact, while we’re writing, we believe more in the story we are telling than the chair in which we are sitting. We have to. We have to believe that our hero wants to save the world even though our hero doesn’t exist anywhere but in our imagination. We must believe a daughter yearns for her father’s attention even though neither the father nor the daughter is any more real than Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. That’s our job – to believe in what only we can see.
The problem is that we would also like to share these stories with other people, and we have absolutely no evidence that this story – which only we can see – will be of interest to anyone. No one knows how many copies of a book will be sold or if it will win any awards. No one knows which reviewers will like it and which will not. It is a mystery to be answered within the sovereign imaginations of our readers.
The only evidence a writer has that his story is worth telling is that he’s interested in telling it. That’s it. That’s all Shakespeare got and that’s all Hemingway got and that’s all Amy Tan and Stephen King get. Your evidence that your story is worth your attention and worth sharing with others is that you think it’s cool, or funny, or scary, or profound. If that’s reason enough for you to write, if that’s reason enough to commit an hour or two a day to the same story for six months or a year or six years, then you have found the simple secret to all faith – that feeling good is evidence enough that something is worth doing and that life is worth living.
Contrast Is Your Friend
From a pure craft standpoint, contrast is invaluable. Just as a flashlight’s beam is distinct in a dark room and nearly invisible in a brightly lit room, so too is whatever we are trying to share with our readers most perceptible against its opposite. So if you want to write about peace, you must show war; if you want to show forgiveness, you must show judgment; if you want to show acceptance, you must show rejection.
Likewise, often the best way to know what we like is when we encounter something we don’t like. If you read a novel and you hate the ending, instead of griping to your husband or writing group about what poor choices the author made, think about how you would have ended it. Your frustration is pointing you toward something you wish to explore, but which has remained unexplored. That discomfort will only grow until it is released on the page.
Finally, the guidance system upon which you so depend to write from day to day speaks entirely in the contrast between the effortlessness of the right word, and the effort of the almost-right word. It speaks in the contrast between the fearlessness of asking yourself what you are most interested in, and the discomfort we have named “fear” that always comes when we wonder what other people will think of what we write. We must have both experiences for our guidance system to work. Without what we call fear, we would have nothing to guide us back to what we love.
You can learn more about William at williamkenower.com.
Bill Kenower: Expert Writing Teacher, Author, Magazine Editor, Podcaster
William Kenower is the author of Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence, Write Within Yourself: An Author’s Companion, the forthcoming Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt, and the Editor-in-Chief of Author magazine. In addition to his books he’s been published in The New York Times, Writer’s Digest, Edible Seattle, Parent Map, and has been a featured blogger for the Huffington Post. He also hosts the popular podcast Author2Author. williamkenower.com
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
by Laura Munson | Nov 27, 2020 | The Writing Life
Maybe you’d like to write your way through the holiday season…
Maybe you’re alone. Maybe your elderly loved ones are alone. Maybe you’re quarantined and can’t get home for the holidays. Maybe you’ve lost loved ones to Covid. Maybe you suddenly have a house full of people and you’re worried about getting sick. Maybe you’ve been home-schooling for months and want to keep traditions alive but aren’t sure how. Maybe you’ve never felt more relief from your previously fast-paced life and you’ve been in your pajamas for nine months. And like it that way. In any case, we all have some form of pandemic fatigue. And I have help for you here because I can relate with all of the above. I’ll start with a personal story. Because I’ve learned: when we tell our stories, it invites others to do the same. I invite you to do the same.
For eight years I have had the utter honor of leading my various Haven Writing Programs in Montana, at a ranch on a square mile of sacred, pristine, land near Glacier National Park. And in some cases, in my home. People have come to Haven from all over the world and from so many demographics, thanks to my various payment plans and scholarships. People have come to find their voices, to write books, to find the words they have longed for all their lives, to be led, held, supported. They come to wander in their words. And they do. It has been the definition of grace to see what happens for these seekers in just five days.
Covid has changed Haven. At least for now. And I miss it dearly. Every single time I say goodbye to these groups of kindreds, connected now in such a profound and lasting way…there is a deep grief in my heart. People whisper in my ear as we hug on the front steps, “You do realize that this just changed my life.” And every single time I hold back tears, knowing that it is true, and knowing that it isn’t about me as much as about the program, the place, the ranch and its loving staff, and the people who have the courage to say yes to this thing called Haven Writing Programs.
When Covid hit, smack dab in the middle of my book tour for my new novel Willa’s Grove and I had to cancel the second half of it, I sat in the airport on March 13th realizing that not only were those events impossible to safely do…but that the rest of my 2020 Haven schedule might just have to be canceled too. And it was. I was in shock and I knew I had to process it. I had given eight years to all things Haven and all things Willa’s Grove, which was inspired by Haven. So one thing was for sure: this grief wasn’t going to just process itself on its own. Grief needs ritual. If you’ve ever lost a loved one, you know that.
When I came home that March day, like so many of us, I knew I had to find some sort of ritual to let go of both of these major losses. I knew I had that skill set. I teach it after all. So like everybody else, I bought beans and rice, and sheltered in place, confused and disoriented. And I decided to use my Haven closing ritual to “close” both the tour, and Haven Writing Workshops and Writing Retreats for 2020. I want to share my ritual with you here because I want to help. We need ritual. Especially over the holidays.
So many of us have had to let go of the lives we created and planned for in 2020. And there’s nothing like a holiday that shines a light on gratitude, giving, and pause to remind us that we need to process and ritualize our losses and loves.
Here is my personal Haven Writing Workshop closing ritual. Use it well. I hope it helps:
Part I:
(and you can do this with any sort of water in any sort of vessel for any sort of loved one that you want to honor, release, accept, bless, observe, remember)
- In our closing circle on the last night of Haven, I tell each group that after they leave the next day, I will go to the small lake at the ranch, which is always such a character on the retreat—with migrating geese and sunny places for reflection, swimming, canoeing, late night star gazing…and lie on the dock.I will then dip my hand into the water and make a swirl, saying their name, thinking about their breakthroughs and unique voices, their writing, their stories, their sorrows and joys…and then the next and the next. Even if it is in the middle of winter and the lake is icy, I still do this, swirling them into a ripple. And in that closing circle I tell them also that they will be rippling here in Montana forever. There are often tears in that circle, and always tears the next day, as I lie on my belly on the dock, sending them off with so much love and gratitude. At the end of it all, once I have reflected and rippled for each of my now Haven alums…I dip both hands into the water and send the ripples across the lake and say, “Travel well, you beautiful seekers. You beautiful writers. Travel well.” Then I watch as the ripples become small waves and travel across the lake until they lap up on the other shore and settle back to calm. And then I flip over on my back and lie there feeling so full. So grateful. So exhausted in all the best ways.
Part II:
(this part of my closing Haven process is one that beautifully balances Part I. And you can do it right where you are.)
- After I leave the ranch, I have a tradition of going home to a cozy nook, not looking at my mail or my email or the dust that has collected while I’ve been gone…and spending an hour or two writing about how grateful I am for each person. After you’ve had such a powerful time with fellow word wanderers, it’s important to be quite deliberate about it. Like with birth, like with death, you need to go slowly and carefully when you come off of an experience like that, especially when you are holding the space for a group. I think of Haven like a nest. I’ve had the honor of migrating to a safe and inspiring place, building the nest, and holding the eggs. They have hatched themselves and fledged. And I need to process it through the tool we’ve been working with so intensely for five days: the written word. My chosen way. What I trust perhaps more than anything in the way of processing this beautiful and heartbreaking thing called life.
Part III:
- And then I have a steak for some reason. Just a steak— likely having something to do with having just eaten the most wholistic, organic, local, mostly-meatless, gorgeous love-made meals for five days. Take a long bath. And go to bed early. This last part feels a lot like Thanksgiving. In fact, all of it feels a lot like Thanksgiving. And the whole holiday season.
Wherever you are in this holiday, season please create healing, soul-searching, burden-releasing ritual. Water and writing help.
And while I can’t lead my Montana Haven writing retreats and writing workshops right now…the very good news is this: I have created an eight week online course called Haven Home which will launch this January. It is filled with the spirit of my live Haven programs, yet very different in content. Along with the weekly video which includes both writing and teaching time…it will also be a private thriving community with extra teaching, writing prompts, and a weekly live one hour forum with industry moguls who will give people so much on so many levels from writing wellness to publishing industry acumen. I truly cannot wait. I need it. We all need it, we word wanderers. And if you are reading this…you are just that. Please join me. Sign up for my newsletter to learn more! Or go here. We’ll create a nest together even if we’re far apart.
Yours,
Laura
by Laura Munson | Sep 20, 2020 | Musings
I have never been more hyper-sensitive in my life than in these last six months.
At first I was ashamed of it. All my life, people have told me “You’re so sensitive” and not as an observation. Rather, as a criticism. There’s a lot of shame around that feeling for me. Even so, I’ve worked hard to keep my sensitivity intact, along with its siblings: empathy and curiosity, but I’ve learned how to not let it blindside me. I have an inner colander of sorts. And I am usually pretty good at running things through it before they lodge in me. I use this inner colander a lot when I’m in a city, the sudden onslaught of energy so different from my quiet Montana life. Since the pandemic, I’m having to use this filtering system more than I ever have, and now it’s not on the subway or fighting traffic on the freeway. It’s in my own house. In the tiny ablutions of life. The smallest spider dropping with its silk from the ceiling onto the kitchen counter…has my adrenals responding like I’m being mugged in a dark alley. A mouse running through the room? There’s a screaming woman running for her bedroom in Montana like she’s running for her life. As the months have gone by, it’s gotten worse. This hyper-sensitivity isn’t just flight or fight or freeze. Sometimes it shows up as a very new sort of disorientation.
Maybe this has been happening to you too. I wouldn’t be surprised. I think we’re all in some sort of shell-shock right now. Globally. Here are a few examples. Some of them are actually funny. In a sad sort of way. Maybe they’ll help you know you’re not alone:
I was having a conversation with my twenty-four year old daughter about college kids being back in school and about the likelihood of social distancing and how they could all so easily be sent back home, and about how all of this will affect them later on. And I was about to quote my WWII father, who used to remark on my generation (X) and all of our complacency and apathy and lack of patriotism when we were in our twenties, with this maddening comment…wait…what was it? I couldn’t think of it. It was something that I didn’t understand at the time and still really don’t understand. But with Covid, I keep thinking about his words and wanting their wisdom, and getting glimpses of it. I wanted to share it with her. Maybe we’d understand it together.
And I said a frustrated, “I don’t remember what I don’t understand.”
And we laughed. Because I didn’t mean it the way it came out. So tangled and maybe even metaphysical. I just meant that there was something my father used to say. And I didn’t understand it, until maybe Covid. And I couldn’t remember it just then.
But I don’t remember what I don’t understand is how this whole time in our lives feels to me. I wake up in the morning not knowing why I have this fist in my chest gripping all of my organs like they’re trying to fly out of my ribs, but with a fierce knowing that there are very bad things happening. I make myself try to not remember. And then I do remember. Just like I remember what my father used to say. “Oh yeah. He used to say, ‘What your generation needs…is a good war.’” Well we have one. We just can’t see the enemy.
Another one of these moments of disorientation happened in the laundry room recently. I was digging through a mountain of clean clothes for something I needed in order to get out the door and to the grocery store— because the cupboard is bare. Not even beans and rice. So I’m trying to get up the courage to brave the grocery store. And frankly, I don’t want that courage, because I don’t like going to the grocery store anymore. I thought I’d be able to see people’s smiles in their eyes above their masks, but I can’t. People aren’t really looking at each other anyway, never mind smiling. They’re in and out fast. Grocery store chats used to be one of my favorite small-town ways to connect with people. My kids used to hate that about me. They’d fume, “Mom, why do you have to talk to people? For so long? We’re starving!” So I’d go on my own time. It’s a little locally owned health food store where everyone cares about your gut health and your life health.
And now I just go in, grab a few zucchini and some chicken and maybe some white beans, and whatever else looks good and easy, and stand six feet away from everyone with my mask on and my glasses, which are fogging up so I can’t see anything, and when the nice woman at the counter speaks to me from behind the plastic barrier, behind her sunflower mask…I can’t see if she’s smiling or stressed that she has to be in the public all day trying to breathe with a mask on her face, and I really can’t hear her because my hearing isn’t great and I do a lot of lip reading, I’ve realized. And I know I need to go to the doctor but I don’t think I can bear the waiting room. It’s already scary enough. All that waiting for bad news. Or maybe good news. But these days bad news seems to be what we’ll get.
But I’m not in the grocery store yet. I’m in my laundry room. Looking for something that I need to clothe myself so that I can feed myself and all I can think about is how sad my little happy grocery store is and that I don’t want to go out in the world at all.
And I say, out loud, “I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know when I find it.”
Another one. These comments are meant to be mundane. But they are so symbolic and maybe even spiritual. I think they mean to be symbolic and spiritual. Need to be. I mean if happiness is an inside job, then it seems like most everything should be, especially during this pandemic. We don’t really have a choice unless we just want to watch Netflix all day. We are inside. We are sitting with ourselves. Whether we like it or not. We might as well try to learn something. (P.S. I was looking for a sock. I didn’t find it.)
To that end, I realized I needed to read a good book. One to help my hyper-sensitivity and my disorientation. I’d heard a lot about one called The Untethered Soul. So I bought it, and every morning I read a chapter before I get out of bed. This morning, I couldn’t find it. I rifled through my stack of books, felt between the mattress and the headboard, and looked under my bed. Nowhere to be found. This book has been a savior. I’ve been relying on its wisdom, underlining and writing all over its margins. And apparently not much has sunk in…
…because these words literally flew out of my mouth: “Where’s my mother f***ing Untethered Soul?!!”
And then I laughed, because how could you not laugh if those words came out of your mouth. Even if they meant to mean one thing, but maybe meant to mean something very different in actuality. One of the passages I have underlined and memorized from this book, is this:
“You are behind everything, just watching. That is your true home.”
Just watching. With life being stopped and stretched into this slow solitude, there is so much time to watch. Watching the forest fire smoke stain the sky. Watching the birds leave in V’s and churring flocks. Watching a face on a computer screen look back at a face on a computer screen, not at an actual face. Watching news I can’t take, and then cooking shows that make me hungry but not to cook for just me. Watching myself go out to dinner and remember that you can’t sit at a bar, so I watch myself sit at a table for one, watching people at tables for two, and eventually watching whatever’s on the TV over the bar, like football. I don’t watch football as a rule, but suddenly it’s my only company out in the world. I should have brought The Untethered Soul. But I don’t want to watch myself being symbolic and spiritual and sensitive. I want to watch myself eat excellent Manila clams and sip Sancerre, and chat with the other single diners at the bar. Instead, I’m watching myself eat two bites of my meal and decide to take the rest to-go. This is my true home: watching the movie that is conscious human life. I am not the movie. I know this. I just wish I liked what I am watching. Maybe I’ll see what Yellowstone is all about. At least I’ll be watching horses and Montana. Only the irony is: I have horses and I live in Montana. I watch myself say “no” to invitations to ride. I watch myself allowing that. Sometimes I say “Yes.” It has to do with how I’m feeling. Is it a sensitive day? Almost every day is. I startle so easily and this is new. Along with this disorientation.
I am startling so easily over the tiniest things. As a horse person, I’ve been trained not to startle easily. Startling easily can get you into serious trouble. You startle, the horse startles. And when horses startle, they run away from the danger. Fast. Sometimes they buck along the way. I understand them. They just want to get back home. Where they feel safe. And can watch for predators. Like me.
The other day I was outside, and I saw something in the sky out of the corner of my eye— something that pushed into my vision and psyche, dark and foreboding and fast, and I gasped. Some nefarious intruder? Some otherworldly winged thing?
It was a rain cloud.
I laughed and said,
“Since the pandemic, now apparently clouds can fall on you. And maybe even suffocate you.”
I tried to shake the startle out of me.
It was cold then, and so I decided to make a fire because I haven’t had the heating ducts cleaned yet for winter and refuse to turn on the heat. God knows what’s been living in those ducts all summer. I don’t need hantavirus blowing all over my house. Especially during whatever other viruses might be amuk. I prefer a fire to gas forced air anyway. I like something alive in my living room besides my dog and me— something that casts light and warmth my way. That’s contained and feels economic and that also makes me feel brave for building it. Going out to the woodshed with the wheelbarrow and loading it up. Chopping kindling on the big larch round that’s been there for thirty years. I brought a load into the woodstove hearth, and stacked the logs with kindling and ripped up cardboard like I always do. And then my knuckle hit the top of the woodstove and it burned. But there weren’t any flames yet. It was like my knuckle was pressed against a hot ember that wouldn’t let go, and I realized that I was being stung by a wasp.
I shook my hand and saw it land on the hearth, still alive. Then I struck a match and let the fire burn, left the wasp, and went into the kitchen to find the baking soda to make a poultice. It stung and I felt very violated by that wasp. Is there a wasp nest in the chimney now? I want all of these uninvited visitors out of my home. Normally, I think these displaced creatures are sort of sweet and brave. I would never kill a spider. I’ve killed mice. They eat my electrical wires. I don’t have the heart to kill anything now. I’ll live in the dark. But I won’t be cold. Even if I get stung by wasps when I’m making a fire.
That’s the thing. It feels like nothing is safe.
One morning last week, I woke up to smoke in the sky. The smoke from the current heartbreaking western inferno finally hit Montana. We’ve been lucky this summer in the Flathead Valley. But there’s lightning in the forecast. I’ve wondered what I would take if I had to evacuate, like so many in the West have had to do in the last months. I can’t think of one thing. One thing becomes boxes of things, and there wouldn’t be time for boxes of things, and passports and birth certificates can be replaced. My grandmother’s piano, and all of my memories cannot. I think I would just grab the dogs and run for our lives. Leave it all behind. My house is my safety. I can’t bear to think of losing it.
So I go the other way.
I stay in bed and realize that my sheets are old and pilly and have holes in them, and some of the pillows don’t even have cases. And suddenly I find myself online buying high thread count percale pillowcases from Italy. I never splurge on things like that. Maybe a trip somewhere or a nice dinner. Experiences. But not really things. The pillowcases come in the mail a few days later, and I wash them, and dry them, and put them on my old sad limp pillows. I rest my head on them and I feel safe. But then it’s more than that. It’s that I feel luxurious. Like I’ve gone somewhere I’ve saved for and planned for and am finally there. Only it’s just my bed. Where I am every day. No long commute. No peopled place, exotic or not. And I think, Well it’s something. So I buy the matching duvet cover and sheets. Even though they are on sale, they are all out of my Covid budget. I’ve never had nice sheets anyway. Not like this.
And I say, aloud, “Why are you buying these?” And then I say, “I don’t know. I’m just lonely.”
Part of me feels like ending this essay there. With that last line. “I don’t know. I’m just lonely.” Because I know you feel it too. Even if you aren’t living alone. Even if you have a house full of people. The loneliness from not being able to connect with the world in person, is causing adrenal burnout. Mis-firing neurons. I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on with not just me, but so many of us. I’m disoriented. I’m feeling everything and all at the same frequency. And I know: I can’t feel the whole world. I would live in a constant anxiety attack. I just need to feel myself. But it helps me to know that behind the feelings, there is the watching. The knowing that I don’t have to be or become any of this. I can be and become instead, the observer of it.
“You are behind everything, just watching. That is your true home.”
I’m just glad that I have really great linens on my bed for now.
yours,
Laura
Sunday, October 25th, 10:00-3:00 MST
Using the powerful tool that is the written word…
We will spend the day digging deeply into:
What you want to let go of
What you want to embrace
What you want to dream alive
You do NOT have to be a writer to come
You DO need to want to find the answer to this question: So Now What
You can be very private and introspective, as it’s not a highly interactive workshop
All you need is a pen and some paper and an open heart. I will guide you through every minute of it!
The time flies by and you come out feeling new, with direction, energy, focus, hope!
For more information and to register, click here.
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