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Loved. Lost. Found. The Reading

image: Loved. Lost. Found. the anthologyLast Saturday, nine women and men over the age of 70 gathered in front of a room at Harwood Place in Wauwatosa to share essays and poems they’d written during the past year.

They looked entirely at ease, despite the looming podium and microphone. I, on the other hand, trotted back and forth before the event began, shuffling papers, asking if anyone wanted water, working up a good sweat and rapid pulse. I could have used some of their serenity (even if they were faking it).

But while our levels of anxiety differed and our ages spanned miles apart, there was so much more that connected us that day.

Jacqui Banaszynski says, “Stories are parables. . . . Stories are history. . . . Each one stands in for a larger message…a guidepost on our collective journey.” When people gather together, writers or not, it doesn’t matter where we come from. Our stories–our histories–connect us. Each of us is daughter or son, husband or wife, old hat at this or novice at that. In the essays and poems read from the podium last Saturday, we heard about first loves, found objects, and failed knitting attempts. I am generations apart from the Harwood Place Writers, but I can relate.

This event is one of the highlights of my year and one of the reasons I continue to lead their class. These writers come to the table every month with open minds, tales to share, and a genuine fellowship that begins with a smile.

IMG_3285Congratulations to the Harwood Place Writers on another year of fantastic stories!

 

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Finding My Footing, Making Connections

On the Outside.

We're not old at allIt’s been four months since I began facilitating the Creative Writing class at Retirement center, and I’m still trying to find my place within the group. I love these writers: they’re enthusiastic, prompt, always willing to share their stories. But, at times, I struggle with how to guide them.

They are a diverse group: a few are interested in submitting their work, others just enjoy reading their stories, some attend simply to listen. And, in the one hour we are allotted (the center keeps those folks busy!), there is no time for a real critique, only a few moments for reflection on individual pieces, and much of the discussion leads to reminiscing common experience.

This is where I stumble most, when the great divide of a generation(s) gap leaves me speechless.

Sometimes, the writers lead their own discussion, with several heads nodding and plenty of “Oh yes, I too remember when….” For those moments, I am grateful. But, when the table is quiet and all eyes turn to me, I feel the pressure of a lost connection. I know the common experiences (between young and old) are there, and I know, once I push past those uncomfortable feelings, I will find them.

Get Personal.

What I need to do, I realize now, is share a little more of me. At our monthly meetings, they often ask me to read what I’ve written on the prompt. So far, I’ve shared short pieces of fiction (since that’s what I tend to write). Next time, though, I’ll do what I’m asking them to do: dig deep for a memory that begs to be shared.

The Prompt.

Breaking the rules.* That’s it. No explanation, just three little words. But those words, I imagine, will yield stories to which we all can relate.

How do you break through uncomfortable feelings? How do you find connections with folks twice your age? Or, better yet, when do you break the rules?

* This month’s prompt comes straight from the Readers Write section of The Sun Magazine. If you decide to write on “Breaking the rules,” consider submitting your piece to The Sun. The deadline is January 1st.

Photo credit: Iñaki Pérez de Albéniz on flickr.com