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The Reading at Harwood Place: People in Community

Last Saturday, residents and friends gathered in the community room at Harwood Place to listen to the Writers of Harwood read stories they’d written over the last year. This is the sixth year we’ve done the reading event, and it’s a thrill to see each writer take to the podium and share their work. As always, listening to them read you can also hear reactions in the audience–affirmations of connection and deep sighs of remembrance. Because each story as written and shared by the author stirs memories and emotions from the listener. In those moments, connections are made and community deepened.

  • The Writers of 2019
    Front row left to right: Carolou, Ruth, Val, Mary Back row: Maura, Toni, Marion, Chuck, Betty, Christi
    (Not pictured but in the audience, Richard and Geri)

This event, and the anthology, could not have happened without the help of several people. Thank you to Harwood Place for giving us the space (and the refreshments!) for the reading, to my husband for taking the photos, to the friends and family who came out to support these lovely writers, and to my fearless co-leader, Maura Fitzgerald, who bore the brunt of the anthology layout & publication work (and did it with grace and a smile).

As these writers change, so do the dynamics of teaching and leading them. But one fact remains: no matter who you are, how young or old you are, your stories make all the difference to the people around you.

In my “I’ve got the podium” photo on the right, I seem to be stressing that very point: Put #PenToPaper! The hardest part is getting to the table.

Once you’re there and surrounded by your community, the writing comes a little easier.

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#PenToPaper: In the Distance

Last week I posted on writing prompts and putting pen to paper. Practice what you preach, they say. The Prompt: in the distance.

image of lake with fog in the distance, which is the writing prompt: "in the distance"

A swallow returns to its nesting place, a salmon returns to the mouth of the river, and she returns the same through waves of memory, back to the beginning. There is a place: a rooftop at midnight, an open window. She will take a blanket, step over the sash, her bare feet on shingles still warm from the heat of the day. She will say, Room for two, and he will follow, though the blanket is for her alone. She will take in the scent of wet grass, the glow of a crescent moon, the silhouette of trees marking a break in the horizon. She will breathe in the burn of his cigarette smoke as if it is the oxygen she needs and wonder at the comfort of him there. She will study the shape of her feet, the wear in his shoes. They will talk as strangers do, about nothing, about anything, until the mosquitoes drive them back inside. She will say something forgettable, but he will laugh true. Thank you for the smoke, he will tell her, then he will look her in the eye, keep a polite distance, smile. And leave. He will not ask for anything more. At this, she will be surprised and relieved. She will fall asleep to a sense of quiet she has not known for a long time. In the morning she will shed old skin; in a year she will move out, move on. But she will not forget: the open window, the silhouette, that simple moment in the distance when the tide shifted.