I'm making a list

In a few short days I will leave for St. Mary of the Woods on the annual Women Writing for a Change-Bloomington summer retreat. I will get two whole days, and two partial days to spend in the company of myself and fellow writers while reading, writing, and thinking. I am thrilled at the opportunity to honor my writing life in this quiet, contemplative place.

In my busy life now, I take almost no time to write which is my favorite activity aside from reading good books. Writing takes careful time, and it takes a clear, well rested brain, neither of which I possess in much abundance right now. One thing I do have is a laptop and a list. While I am doing laundry or schlepping kids to the pool or looking for batteries for the Wii, I think of writing puzzles or memories I would like to explore or an idea I want to further or a turn of phrase I think would be great in a poem. I grab my laptop and jot it down.

This list has become pretty long over the past few weeks, and I intend to explore as much of it as I can at the upcoming retreat. It feels comfortable knowing I won’t set myself up in a cozy writing corner and feel the dull hammer of writer’s block. No, not this writer; I’ll have a long list of prompts waiting for me to explore. Here’s item number one on my list: why I hate numbers.

What’s on your writing to do list?

Amy for the Poplar Grove Muse

Summer 2009, WWF(a)C Retreat

It’s the first evening of our summer, 2009 retreat at St. Mary of the Woods. As the opening circle unfolds, I experience visions of color. Like the fabrics of a scrap quilt, each woman in our group of 13 brings a unique intensity and texture to the retreat circle. One woman is bright orange, another soft pink. A calico, a graphic print. Our words piece together, forming a beautiful quilt of diversity and organic harmony.

Beth has chosen a theme of change. As always, I find the topic to be both inspiring and confounding. I teeter on the thin wire – arms out for balance – deciding if I will skate across or let myself fall deeply into my truths.

I spend the next morning writing in my room. It is spacious, simply appointed, with a comfy rocking chair and a large window looking over a grassy field. After lunch, I find a quiet bench outside in what feels like my very own hobbit hole. I write until our group meets at 2 pm. I should be more precise. I write, I wander, I doodle, I daydream, I snap photos, I think about decisions that need to be made, I write some more.

Magic happens here. For example, during an evening stroll several of us encounter a security guard. “Are you the writers?” he asks. In unison we proclaim, “Yes!” That was a shining moment. Not a single voice hesitated. We are writers.

We continue our after-dinner walk to the cemetery, a sea of sisters. Their tombstones glimmer in the moonlight. Whether by night or day, St. Mary of the Woods is full of secret gardens and quiet nooks. There are chapels of iridescent shells, faces carved in stately poses, limestone covered in verdant green moss, and that cemetery of whispering stories. I find muses hiding in the boughs of trees, the robes of bronze saints, and the voices of quiet stones. I do some of my best writing here.

With no irony, St. Mary of the Woods has become sacred to me. I love it for the gorgeous grounds, the progressiveness of the nuns, the writing circle, Beth’s leadership, and the beautiful women who glow as they proclaim “We are writers!”

Stephanie, for the Poplar Grove Muse