"Writing From the Four Diretions" starts with making sure your compass is true.

     It is odd for me to not immediately write a review about a writing workshop that I have attended. I understand the value of feed back, good or bad. So for it to take me five months to write a review is an astounding amount of time. This review jumps back and forth from Trebor Healey and Saratoga Springs Retreat Center. The venue made the workshop complete. I'm sure it would work other places, but this is the way home feels to me. We'd be family anywhere, but this is our place.

     Writing From The Four Directions, lead by Trebor Healey (http://www.treborhealey.com/) was an event I had looked forward to for over a year. There were a lot of detours to getting there; so when I was finally at Saratoga Springs Retreat Center (http://www.saratogasprings.com/)it was surreal.

     There were three big things that made this especially poignant for me. First, I allowed myself to step away from home after losing my Dad. I feared that the grief I carried with me would distract from the experience. Second, spending money on my craft is something "professionals" do. Taking this trip was, to my thinking, taking a big step in my own view of my work. Third, being the first to do something; even when it is welcomed; is scary. More about that in a minute.

     So, I went. Checking off firsts along the way. The first time I left my state (or county for that matter) to go to a writing workshop. The first time I ever rented a car in my name and was the sole driver. Weird, I know. The first time, this is the biggie, a woman has ever attended "Writing From the Four Directions".
     Trebor and the staff at Saratoga Springs were as excited for me to be there as I was, but would the others be so happy. As we gathered, introducing ourselves individually, then formally in a circle, I remembered the old adage, "open with a joke". "I'm Laura, and I'm not a gay male." As the room erupted in laughter, we all became family.
     Those next few days together were times of trepidation in sharing work, bold honesty, lots of laughter, thought provoking poetry and prose, and tears. 
     Trails that wrap around the retreat center brought times of nurturing friendships and connecting with the earth that is so carefully preserved by the retreat center. Listening to the brook babble it's tales and the wind whistle it's song through the trees took me to a time when wagons and walking brought people to this spot. In the middle of the lawn there is a small plaque, commemorating the post that was there that started this town. I wonder what the trees would say about the people who may have planted them there. And the trees that were there before the people.
    The workshop was structured enough to keep us on track to explore writing exercises, yet loose enough to let the moment be the inspiration. Trebor did a wonderful job of orchestrating the movement of the group.
     As I got into my rental car to return to my life, there was peace that hadn't been with me for a while and joy in the connections I had made.
     So, why then has it taken so long to write this review? If it was all peaches and roses, why not write it right away?
     Time is a great truth teller.
     Trebor and I sat for a little while and looked at some of my poetry. He had taken them the night before and made notes. As we sat there he proceeded to do what Trebor does, he was honest. I listened and tried to ask good questions. But the truth is, my feminine ire rose up. I had not been told how great I am, funny right? No happy voices of assurance. He spoke to me the same way he would any of the guys. I will always be grateful for that.
     Returning home I ran a gambit of emotional responses. "I'm not good. Others have lied to me." Then, "What does he know? Others tell me it's good." Then, my all time favorite, "Who cares about any of this anyway?"
     I love Trebor. I didn't write this review immediately because I knew time would sift out the emotion until the fine powder of truth made the cake rich and fluffy.
     The truth is Trebor is a gay guy. I know, pretty revolutionary stuff right there. Before this two kinds of people had reviewed my poetry, women or straight guys. These two people groups tend to filter their comments through kindness or fear. They are honest, but don't want to hurt feelings; and they don't want a woman to go off on them for being told they need to work on it.
     Trebor wants me to be a better writer. Crazy, I know.
     Having sifted the truth I know a few things. Some of my writing is more feminine than I can explain to Trebor. Women get it without having to explain it. That's okay. Some of my writing is bad. That's okay. Some of my writing ends at a place I'm comfortable with, but he isn't. Neither is bad, it's just different. That's okay.
     What I've learned is to know my audience and write for them, without apologies. To listen to the voices around me, both audible human voices and the whispers and whirls around me. And kick down the box! Take my art to the least likely audience and respectfully listen to their feed back. People who like it, or are like me, will tell me what I want to hear. That's nice, but not helpful. Go where the honesty hurts, pain brings growth.
     I hope that more women will attend Trebor Healey's workshops. His talent for making blunt descriptors poetic and his eloquence in dealing with difficult subject matters, as in "A Horse Named Sorrow", make him a valuable teacher.
     Saratoga Springs Retreat Center is a wonderful setting. Enough creature comforts to be comfortable, but not so much that it detracts from the setting. The staff were all helpful, engaging, and fun. Arnna took very good care of all of us.
     What ever your art is I hope you will go to a place that is very different and learn from the time there. Nurture your mind and spirit to flourish in astounding ways. Find the hope of your art in the differences that surround you.

Look up and find your peace

I got up early on my day off, in hopes of seeing the sunrise. As the day broke it became obvious that there would be no glorious sunrise, instead a blanket of fog hung just at the tree top line.

With a sigh of acceptance, mixed with a smirk of disappointment, I considered going back to bed. Nothing inspiring happening outside, and coffee brewing, I decided to open my computer. As I scrolled around, something caught my eye outside. I looked up in time to watch an eagle gliding over the choppy water, likely looking for breakfast. Then I saw it, the inspiration I had thought would come in the form of a glorious sunrise.

The choppy water.

Early this week I was talking to someone about the fact that knowing that someone else has it worse than you does not diminish the importance of the problems you have. Every one has choppy water, some are minor swells, others are major storms; but everybody has them.

The thing about churning water is that eventually the tide will turn and there will be treasure on the shore. Some of what the churning brings will be trash. As we walk with our heads down, contemplating the churning of life, we need to keep a sharp eye for the good that's come of the storm. If we take time to walk slowly through it there will be beautiful shells and bright sea glass that add beauty and color to our lives.

Today's beauty and inspiration is not in the glorious, breathtaking color of a sunrise. Today it's the quiet gray mist, floating just above the trees and the light breeze churning up the gray/blue waters.

In it I find peace and inspiration, because I looked up. Look up and find your peace.  

A Meditation From My Walk Through the Valley

The path to where you want to be is usually through the last place you want to go. But when you get to where you hoped to go, you know that you can go anywhere. That's when the value of the journey far out shines the reward of the destination.

See the Beauty Through the Regret

     Yesterday it rained most of the day. Then, right about 5 o'clock, it stopped and the clouds moved out just in time for sunset to begin. As the sun shone on the water, I searched the sky for a rainbow. I never saw one. What I did see was a magnificent sunset that turned gray clouds to pink. The earth glimmered as the rain drops became mirrors to reflect the light. And the water turned shades of deep blue, growing softer as it rolled to shore. It was exquisite.
 
     I was glad that I didn't stop watching just because there wasn't a rainbow.

     How often in life do I give up because I don't get a rainbow? What beauty do I miss?

     I live with regret that I didn't go home in time to see my Dad before he died. Now I see that that's not my rainbow. My sisters get that rainbow.

      What I have is memories of long phone conversations we had all most every Sunday for the last few years. Those were magnificent.

     What magnificent beauty are we missing out on because we don't see the rainbow? Or because we live with this foolish notion that we should have no regrets. Regrets remind us to do better next time. We shouldn't be ruled by them, instead we should learn from them.

     I will always wish I had, but now the tears that covered my life are reflecting the light of a magnificent beauty around me. The gray clouds are turning pink with the light of family and friends shining around me. And the water is turning softer, as it gently rolls in to remind me that time moves on.

     What regret are you hiding in a closet because someone told you it doesn't help you in any way? Or because you rather like having a dark cloud to throw around? Take it out and say it out loud, "I wish I had/hadn't...." Then look at all you learned from that choice and how your life is better for it. You can't change what happened, you can change the influence it has on your mindset. Choose to find the beauty that you have because of, or in spite of, the regretful moment.

    Rainbows are a gift, they aren't meant to be chased. The beauty of life is all around us. If we use our tears as mirrors of light, instead of refraction of regret.

   

    

Heart songs

As my mother lay dying, I knelt by her bed and said, "I love you Mom." I heard a whisper back, "I love you." I was shocked at the power of my imagination. My mother was full of morphine, there was no way she heard me, much less responded.

A little while later my sister was in with Mom and I realized they were talking. It wasn't just want or will or imagination. My mother had responded to me. What a blessing.

Now, fourteen years later, I think about that moment and how easy it was to think Mom hadn't really said anything. And I realize how I do that in life.

How easy it is for me to accept the negative words that are hurled at me, while dismissing the positive words are impossible.

That day my heart was listening better than my mind, perhaps it's time to not take the negative words to heart, but to listen to the words that make my heart sing.

I love you Mom. Thanks for the message, I hear you.

On Writing and Feelings

I wasn't prepared for the impact that losing my Dad would have on me. I knew I would be incredibly sad and that I would miss our Sunday evening chats. Never did I expect that I would not have an inkling to write. I write about everything, all the time. Why would that change?

It's been as if the heart has gone out of me and took the words along. Sudden inspiration and characters waking me in the night all stopped. The very thing that connected me to my paternal family, writing, became void of voice, form and will.

At first I missed it, like an injured athlete being told they can't play anymore, I was heart broken. I accepted it as lost and waited to see what would take it's place, preparing to move on to something different. Then, a few days ago, a line strolled across my thoughts and refused to stop. It felt a little strange, like meeting an old lover on a crowded subway. There we were, face to face. Being jostled about, holding our ground until,by the crowd and the force of movement, we are pushed together. Awkward and uncomfortably we started a conversation, occasionally stopping to stare, then turning away. Slowly, between interruptions of load speakers and stops, we are reconnecting.

I'm a little excited and a little nervous. This old friend and I are working through some things, like who I write for and why my voice matters. You know, little things. I'm letting go of the feelings of anger and resentment for what wasn't finished. As I work on myself, all my relationships get better. And today I work on the line...

"She was surprised by the tears that filled her eyes. Never had she felt so amazingly wanted and cared for as she did in that bed, that night. After a lifetime of being told to never need anyone, to be independent, she felt completed by another. Love turned out to be real, and it was in her arms."

Fear of losing inner self

No matter how many wonderful people I have around me
When the voices in my head go quiet
It is incredibly lonely

Cold as a room full of strangers
My mind finds nothing familiar
Nothing to go to for comfort

When nothing I see or hear inspires words
It's as if I have lost my hearing.
No inner sound creates a void

Feeling like a child lost in my own world
Wide eyed, seeking something familiar
Seeing only blurs of color flash by

In these times all I can do is function
Hope the inner voice returns
And wonder who I'll be if it doesn't this time.