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Meet me at the podium.

Today, the writers at Harwood Place held their annual reading showcase. Spending time with this group always inspires creative thought and conversation.

The Harwood Place Writers of 2023. Bottom row (left to right): Jean, Toni, Carolou, Mary, Ruth.
Top row (left to right): Warren, Milton, Carole, me.

I WRITE. In journals. On screen. In countless notebooks. I WRITE to-do lists. Plans of action. I record the date and the day of the week and where I am. Some days the page is filled with notes on nothing. Still ….

I WRITE for some of the same reasons Margaret Atwood writes:¹ To set down the past before it is forgotten. To excavate the past because it has been forgotten. To produce order out of chaos. To say a new word. To cope with my depression. To bear witness…

TO BEAR WITNESS speaks to why the Harwood Place Writers and I meet once a month.

Harwood Place is a retirement living center in town. It’s been several years since the we have held the annual reading event. A small pandemic got in the way, cut us off and kept us apart for months on end. Kept us hidden behind masks when we did return to routine. Kept us suspicious of anyone with a slight cough or sneeze or clearing of the throat. (We were never so suspicious before!) The fact that we are still here is a testament of miracles.

I’ve been spending time with this group for a while now. The first time I met with them, in the summer of 2012, I was very green and very uncertain as to how I might teach men and women of a different generation – of several generations apart. But I quickly learned that there is no great divide when it comes to writing or to telling our stories.

Stories bear witness to our experiences and in turn, no matter the age, they pave the way to connection and community. I’ve seen it happen so many times: when one person shares a story they have written, and the group sets off on a discussion of similarities and reminiscing and (more often than not) laughter. That connection and community and laughter! is the reason I return again and again.

Today’s event was a celebration of all their stories and poems they have written over the past year. Reading their stories aloud reminds them — and all of us who listen — that their stories matter.

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Missing Betty

Betty Sydow authored the first book published by Hidden Timber, a story written in a class, illustrated by her friend and artist Carolou Nelsen, and brought to life by the founder of Hidden Timber Books, Lisa Rivero.

Betty (left) and me (right) after a long pandemic separation.

Sometimes you don’t realize how long you’ve known a person until they’re gone, and you look back at old blog posts to find the words you’d written about her time and again and discover that it’s been ten years, which may not sound like a long time, but when you consider that you met when she was in her mid-80s, a good solid ten years is a lifetime. And yet, not enough time.

I can’t remember if Betty Sydow said she’d always wanted to write when she was young, but she wrote diligently for all of the classes I taught when I took over the writing group at Harwood Place in 2012. She was already losing her sight and hearing, so she wrote her stories and poetry (and a few excellent flash fiction tales!) with a black Sharpie on plain white paper. The first time she read her work at a podium, at Harwood’s very first Writers Showcase, she was nervous. (We were all nervous!) So before we began, as she took her place in her chair at the front of the room and residents and family and friends slowly filled the audience seats, I asked if I could get her something to drink. I thought, water. She said, gin and tonic. It was 1:00 in the afternoon on a Saturday. All I could offer was a cup of well-sugared lemonade from the refreshment table, and she said, Well, that will have to do. That little interaction settled us both.

When Betty wrote her story about Stanley the Sparrow, all of us at the table agreed it would make a great children’s book. From that moment on, Betty was determined. She partnered with her good friend Carolou, who created the illustrations, and I met with my friend Lisa, hoping I could at least get the story in book form. Even better, Lisa took the project on as her first to be published under Hidden Timber Books. Lisa, Betty, Carolou, and I worked for months rewriting, reworking images, reviewing proofs. For the release of The Adventures of a Sparrow Named Stanley, Harwood threw a huge party, complete with champaign and fanfare and a serenade from a fellow resident.

And Betty kept writing.

Kept delighting us with clever poems.

Kept inspiring us with insightful stories.

It was difficult for all of us to come back after a two-year covid hiatus wrecked our flow, especially Betty whose loss of vision blurred even the thick dark lines on plain paper. She was absent from our first post-pandemic meeting, but she showed for the next. And for several more after. I discovered Betty had continued writing even while we were unable to meet, and she let me share her poem about poetry that speaks to her quiet, creative, determined spirit.

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.

There is an unspoken understanding when I meet with the writers at Harwood: that our time together may not be long, that we may witness each other in decline. So we focus on the work, share as many stories as we can, quicken the connections, fill the reservoir. But no matter how prepared you think you are, loss is loss. When the news breaks, it always comes as a surprise.

Now I’m up too late, trying to find the words to end this post. And maybe that’s just it: I don’t want it to end.

…

Thank you, Betty, for every minute, for every story.

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I am looking forward to … I hope

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.

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.

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

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.

Writing begets writing.

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

Fill in the blank.