Every once in a while, you imagine what a designated block of time spent in a particular way might be like; every once in a while the reality of it measures up to the hope of it. So far, my writing retreat has lived up to my hopes for it.
A promise I made myself as this retreat began was that I would write my daily morning pages, as prescribed by Julia Cameron in her various books for aspiring and blocked creatives. I'm bending the rules here by writing today's pages in the form of a blog post and sharing them with all who might read this, but Cameron herself says there's no wrong way to write these pages.
It's not that I haven't read and replied to some emails while I've been up in Maine; it's not that I haven't spoken to my parents or had a chat with the visiting nurse who's about to discharge my dad from her care, given his complete recovery from the pneumonia he had earlier this month. This hasn't been the kind of retreat that has enabled me to leave the whole world behind. But it's definitely let me leave enough of it behind.
Truthfully, I had forgotten what that felt like. It seems like forever since I woke up in the morning and had a day, let alone a series of days, about wishes and aspirations rather than obligations. If in yesterday's blog I wrote about experiencing a sense of homecoming when I read Wordsworth's poetry in early December, today I can honestly say that many miles from home, sitting in quiet libraries under the blank slate of Maine's bright blue winter sky, I am also experiencing a sense of homecoming.
Maybe writing retreats always need to be about both homecoming and departure, though in what order I don't know. A couple of weeks ago, I went on a weekend visit to another very good friend from college. Thanks to the long, quiet train rides to and from Philadelphia, and much to my relief, I discovered that even if I hadn't been able to write very much since November, I could still read in an engaged way.
Of course, visiting old friends also always reminds me that I'm not someone who is engaged only in the care of her elderly parents. That's part of why I'm seeing friends for dinner every night during this writing retreat.
Oh no, they've added drums. I'm enjoying the children's story hour a little less than I was before, but the singing still really is good. The kids are doing great with some complicated rhythms, and they seem to have the words to the songs' many verses down cold. Not to mention the sounds that the animals make.
The songs are over now, at least for a while; I think they're listening to the stories that aren't sung, that are being read or told.
When I first stopped teaching, I used to go regularly if not often to the Thomas Crane Public Library in Quincy. Those were the days when I even had time to walk to and from the library, let alone go there for a few hours. Those days seem so long ago. But sitting in Maine public libraries the last couple of days reminds me that the days will come when I will be able to resume that practice.
I mention my mother's move because my lack of writing is so much connected to it: the challenge of the last few months, besides my parents' various health issues, has been that they're living one floor apart from each other after so many years--it will be seventy years on March 18--of living fully together. It's been a difficult, sad adjustment for both of them, one they've both been needing to make when neither of them is at the top of his/her emotional game.
I don't know what else I might do here today. Write some of the talk I'll be giving in early March about Considering Matthew Shepard? Read another Wordsworth poem? Or some of the poetry of Rachel Hadas, whose work I first encountered in the Scituate Town Library poetry discussion group earlier this month?
What I do know for sure is that I'll be off to Ellsworth for dinner with another good friend from college days when my library day is over.
What a gift to have time, choice, and space! Not to mention friends.
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