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 reflected on the spaces we inhabit.
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 🙂
Some Poems Demand To Be Heard by Betty Sydow
The writing group is postponed once more.
But poets always keep words in store.
To rhyme for any occasion–
And do so with little persuasion.
The writing closet in my mind
is just the place where I can find
words and phrases soon to be
starring in my poetry.
They all fly off that closet’s shelf.
My poem writes itself.
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.
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”
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.
Thank You, Christi
Your reflection was just what I needed…
I knew a couple people at Harwood. They are the “salt of the earth” and blessed to have you caring for them.
NBK