Summer Stories

Last week, I went on my first writing residency. I say my first, because maybe, just maybe, I will be able to do it again sometime. I saw this posting on Facebook back in April, about 4 days before my 45th birthday. That is significant because it was a residency for people aged 45+. When I received the acceptance email, I handed it to my husband and asked if it was real (coincidentally—I asked my husband the same thing when we started officially dating). Apparently, I do not trust good things the first time out!

I want to tell you that I went to the residency entirely confident and not at all like a little girl playing dress-up as a writer. I want to tell you that, but it would be untrue. On the day I was set to leave, my neuro-spicy son was also attending his first day of camp, as was my daughter. Because I have all too often received a mid-day phone call alerting me to an episode, I did not leave for Looking Glass until I knew he had made it through the day. That worked out well for me because my stomach was in revolt, so I needed the time. I wish that I were less of an anxious soul, but I am not, so I tried to be gentle with myself and ease into the experience.

It was lovelier than I could have imagined. There were two other writers there with me, along with the owner of the property, who is an accomplished cellist in New York City. Each night there were exquisite healthy meals that I did not have to cook, and conversation with like-minded souls late into the night.

In the day, I laid out my manuscript along the long table in the barn and read/re-read each poem aloud, edited/re-edited and re-organized each one. I asked myself what was missing to tell the story I wanted to tell. I wrote 6 new poems, and a few unrelated short stories to give myself a break.

And I FINISHED THE BOOK. A 50-poem manuscript outlining the journey I have taken through the dark forest of the soul (neurodivergence, motherhood of a differently abled child, deconstruction of a faith I held dear) over these last 8 years. There are quotes from some of the women whose own words were instrumental in my healing: Joan Didion, Clarissa Pinkola Estes and Hilary McBride. As I read it back to myself, it felt like I had written it to tell myself a story. A story of reclamation and hope. I hope it will be picked up by a press that sees its value, and if not, I will find another way to bring it to life. A wise woman once said, “The world needs your medicine.”

Even during this magical week, reality found me. One day, I received a phone call from camp, but it was nothing drastic, even though my heart plummeted into my stomach. Even away, I am still a mother. I may always live in that caretaker role. Motherhood is no joke any way you slice it, but to mother a neurodivergent child with behavioral regulation challenges is something even more. The ever-evolving trick of it is how to care for myself in the process. The morning that I was to leave, I sent that manuscript to 2 different places, because dreams begin with believing in yourself.

I have been back for almost a week now. Beth Kempton has been hosting her #tinysummerpoems. I have been using them to process some of the week. You can see some of that here:

I have been hard on myself this week for not being able to go from nervous system regulation back into a life where the hum of it all is just a bit louder than my sensitive soul can bear. David Gate made a post the other day that really helped me to be seen. And Dr. Hilary McBride showed up on Substack! My therapist is pure gold, and my husband has been patient and loving. Nonetheless. It has been a bumpy week.

Why am I sharing all this? Because maybe someone else needs to hear it. Maybe someone else, maybe you, need to know that you are not alone.