I’ve been at a writing retreat for the last four nights. It’s a bi-annual retreat with the same core group of women writers and it’s become a reTREAT for me. Except this time I’ve felt quite distanced, from the writing, from the group and from myself.
I know this is mostly due to being on a client writing deadline so I’ve had to use every available hour (apart from attending writing workshops in the mornings) to tick off work productivity boxes.
I haven’t been able to sink completely into the spaciousness of the time here, the luxury of days all to myself to dream and mull and write and nap.
But I have taken the time to make fire on two evenings, which has felt like a creation in its own right. Maybe each fire we make is unique, has its own quirky character, a once-off warmth and flame, never to be repeated?
Tending to the fire got me thinking about tending to our creative flames. A good fire needs time and airy space and the right wood. So do our creative spirits.
This morning I woke up thinking about the creative fires I’ve witnessed these past few days. So even though my own flame hasn’t burned particularly hot or bright, what a gift it is to be part of a creative community, which offers the privilege of witnessing the fiery creativity of others.
When one of us shares her creative spark, it generates a heat that warms all of us.
And for that, I’m very grateful.
Here is a poem that found me on the very last day of the retreat.
Cast a Spell for Story
(by Cathy Park Kelly)
Feel your nose on the grindstone
the roughness of it on the soft tip of your face
Make every hour count
Add value where you can
Set your timer
and scramble for words
A wordsmith for hire
Your client waiting on the other side of a Google doc
Feel the slow swell of longing
like the lonesome three-bar call of the owl you heard
just before the sun rose
Three more sections to go,
then two,
then one
And quick,
Grab your keys, your journal and the wand of your pen
Throw on a warm jacket and point your nose
in the direction of the wind
Launch yourself onto an unfamiliar beach
and breathe
Big
Deep
Turn a circle
Once
Twice
Thrice
until your head fills with the green sweep of mountains
the blue swoop of foamy waves
and the screech-wheel of sea gulls
Feel the tug on your heart
as you mourn someone who won’t see this
This dance of sage-green and moody blues
And think how much he would’ve loved this
All this
Notice as tears well up
from some mysterious inner chamber
Let go into the inscrutability of your own self
Then
Choose a spot he would have loved
Order the coffee he would have wanted
Take your pen up
And write
Write it all down, down
Till it rises up, up
into the brooding sky
Like the grey winged sea gull
that weaves a bridge
between heaven and earth
lost and found
here and not-here
Look down at the page
your pen warm between thumb and forefinger
and see
Story has found you
Even though you thought
You were lost
LOVE this!!
Thank you for sharing your emotions, your vulnerability.