Category: writing

It’s a new year. Everyone is all about intentions these days. I intend to do a lot of things.

I intend to get up early and exercise. I intend to walk past that dish of Hershey Kisses and not grab two or four or … you know. I intend to get to bed earlier but man, Netflix makes it hard. At midnight my reflexes are too slow to hit Dismiss before the clock runs out and there I am in the middle of a recap. One after another.

Intentions. We all know the general definition, but here’s one often overlooked:

intention [ in-ten-shuhn ]. noun. Surgery, Medicine/Medical. a manner or process of healing, as in the healing of a lesion or fracture … or the healing of a wound.

Which brings me to Amanda Gardner, who is taking one of my classes right now and who inspires me to write as well. She always has a beautiful way of expressing herself in a short span of words, and when I read her most recent post on the prompt blueprint, I asked if I could share it with a wider audience.

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I am looking forward to finding a therapist in 2022. I want my life back. I want to be in Albuquerque with my dogs. I want to have agency and make my own decisions. Who am I kidding? I want to feel agency for the first time in my life. I want to speak my mind and not be scared. I want to feel independent which, in truth, I have seldom felt. I am always looking elsewhere for guidance. I don’t want to socialize because I feel like I have to be what I think other people want. I don’t know when or how to say what I want and most of the time I don’t even know what I want or maybe I do know but I doubt it’s “right.” I want to live with Jane Goodall and the gorillas. I want to be on a plane alone, not taking care of anyone. I want to have my own blueprint. I am putting a lot of stock in this as-yet-unnamed therapist. I hope I am not disappointed.

AMANDA GARDNER facilitates writing workshops for people experiencing homelessness or incarceration and has had many flash pieces published. She is working on a memoir in flash about her husband’s illness and recovery.

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Share it, then take a lesson from her approach and see where my pen might take me.

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I look forward to slowing down and listening more. To the sound of our house at night –expanding and contracting in the heat and the cold, like taking deep breaths after a long day. I look forward to being outside in good weather and bad, just to know that I am alive. I want to spend more time looking up, because I know I am missing so much when I always look down at my own two feet trying to navigate the path alone. I want to be in conversation with more writers like Mandy, who reveal their truths so that I might have the courage to take a look at my own. I am putting a lot of stock in the possibilities around me. I hope that I am brave enough to stay in each moment long enough to witness the miracle.

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Writing begets writing.

What about you? — I look forward to … I hope.

Fill in the blank.

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Today I returned to one of my favorite circles of writers, the senior citizens at Harwood Place, who invited me to lead a writing class nine years ago when I was very green as a teacher. Some of the writers at the time, despite their age, were very green at putting their stories to the page. But over the year, and the next several years, we grew together.

We wrote about our mothers.

We explored cloth and memory.

We reflected on the spaces we inhabit.

We celebrated each other.

My god, how I love – and have loved – these men and women.

After covid hit and everything shut down and I spent almost two years away from them, I got busy with so many other projects that I didn’t think I would have time to spend teaching the group\ once the doors opened up again to volunteers. But in August I got a phone call from Mary D. who asked if I might come back. I pretended to have to think about it, but really, I knew I would return. Not only because Mary is all sweetness and joy and smiles wrapped up in one tiny, soft-spoken, beautiful-with-her-white-hair woman and saying no to her is impossible, but also because spending time with this group fills my cup in so many ways.

If we have learned anything from covid, it’s that life is short and some things are not that important. Other things, however, sustain us, heal us, connect us, carry us forward.

There were several faces missing today, some who more recently have moved on (Chuck, Val, Mary L., you are greatly missed) and another who couldn’t make it downstairs to class. So when we finished our hour together, I walked up to see Betty. She’s been a staple in the group for years. She’s always been a strong woman in voice and has brought so many fun and inspiring stories to the table. If I’d known Betty decades ago, I would have followed in the wake of her spirit and energy. She’s written flash fiction, a children’s book, and poetry, and I asked if I could share one of her newer poems, written in during the fallout of covid, as a testament to her creative spirit and the inspiration these writers continue to offer each time I visit.

She graciously said yes and let me take her photo, too 🙂

Stories connect us, they reunite us, with them we rebuild our history and stake claim to the missing pieces of our memory. In fact, that’s the prompt I left with them this month — missing, a prompt inspired by the words of Beth Kephart in her chapter, “Remembering to Remember,” from her new book, We Are The Words.

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The story of me (of you, of us) is elastic. We will never completely know ourselves. We will never flawlessly remember. We will perpetually adjust our assessments, appraisals, announcements, analyses — or we will if we are genuine memoirists.

~ from “Remembering to Remember”

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When you go back to the beginning, when you return to the blank page after a long hiatus of writing, don’t worry about what’s been dormant for so long (mind or pen). Don’t worry about what may be hidden behind the clouds of age or, say, too much fun in your twenties. Grab onto the first word, the first image, and let your pen guide you. Your poem, your story, will write itself.