I thought to get a picture

of her plate sized pink petals

layered in ruffles, like

a young girl’s prom dress.

Pink petals cupped like opened hands

but protective of her own heart center,

blood red, with golden stamen,

an offering of symmetry and rare perfection in the garden.

I will, I thought, composing the photo in my mind,

gain proximity by stepping gingerly in the strangled vines of sweet-pea.

I will, I thought, lean over the white picket fence

with Sony Cyber Shot in hand

and fill the frame with that flower face

in the fullness of its ripened hour.

With that same anticipation and hunger

I had sought to capture my daughter in digital

a day earlier, in her satin pink prom dress,

the color of this peony.

Her sweet eighteen year old face,

framed by soft, cascading tendrils around her eyes,

a sparkling blue, shadowed in smoky quartz,

her cheeks, blushing in bronze shimmer,

her lips plumped in coral ice.

I aimed my camera and zoomed in

to magnify her smile,

the crinkle of her eyes,

the dimple in her left cheek,

the shy tilt of her head.

Against a backdrop of woodland greenery and blooming azalea

she posed in our backyard

with the young man who presently holds her heart.

He encircled, with his hands, her waist,

lean in a corsetted top that I had tied,

threading and weaving satin ribbon through eyelets,

tugging the boned corset snug to her satisfaction,

double knotting and bowing the remaining ribbon

at the curve of her back ~

releasing it to trail down the train of her dress.

When the posing was done,

she asked to borrow my camera

hers being broken,

and this being her one and only prom night.

The limo was waiting.

No time to download and protect my treasure,

only to risk, yes or no?

All night, re-imagining the vision

that was my daughter in her peony pink satin gown

I feared she would leave the camera behind.

Drop it onto a dance floor to be trampled underfoot.

Rest it on a sink in the ladies restroom to be stolen.

I texted her cell phone, to remind ~

Take care of yourself.

Take care of my camera.

It was the next morning, when I thought to take a picture of the peony.

Spying the blossoms on the way to my car

as I paused to investigate the garden’s latest reveals.

And there, the day’s unmitigated perfection

bobbing its head in assent, as if to say, Yes, capture me now,

in digital.  I am plump for the photgraphic picking.

I will never look more lovely.

In fact, truth be told, I am dying.  So hurry.

Back into the house, for my camera

returned to me safe, after all, from prom night.

But stepping into the garden, and opening the lens cover

I discovered a flashing low battery icon.

Dead.

I thought to charge the battery

and attempt again to capture the photo

when I returned from the grocery store.

But truly, I felt the peony slipping away even then.

Even as I sprung open the silver trap door of the camera.

Even as I popped out the square, flat battery.

Even as I clicked it into place in the rechargeable unit,

and plugged the unit into the electrical outlet.

I knew, though I couldn’t have said why,

that I was on the losing side of a contract negotiation.

Hours later, reading at home,

having forgotten my intention

I heard the thunder.

Listened to a weather report of a cell

of violent storms moving into the area.

Saw the sky grow eerily dark

for the middle of the afternoon.

And then remembered.

I thought to replace the now charged battery,

run out ahead of the lightening,

sieze a visual memento

of a beauty that would not survive the wreckage of this day.

But who can say a tribute to a peony is worth the risk

of a lightening strike?

I am not brave.

Instead, I watched, through the rain-streaked window,

as golf ball sized hail stones

pummelled the peony,

her large head bowing

heavy with wind and rain.

Later, with the sky awash in a complimentary rainbow

I paid my respects.

June 2009



If Tomorrow Were My Last Day on Earth

If tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would hop a plane to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to see his face one last time. I would arrive even before the care package that I mailed today with the snow boots and granola bars. Goldfish crackers, envelopes of hot cocoa, a chapstick and mint milano cookies. And the ten dollar bill ~ not a lot of cash, but cheerful and heartening taped to one of the cocoa envelopes, Alexander Hamilton’s face side up.

I imagined his face, Michael’s, as he opened the box to investigate the small pleasures. Imagined his smile when he found the ibuprofen for his aching knees tucked into one boot. His aching- to- reach- his-goal knees. Skiing one hundred days in one Wyoming winter. And after he opened the box, dug into the goldfish, thumbed through the book, White Heat, A Memoir of an Extreme Skiing Life~ I imagined him reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his cell phone to text (no one calls anymore, voices are rare), to text, “Hey Mom, got the package. You’re the best.” And reading it on my cell phone, I would smile to think of his.

He’s good to his mother. I have over seventy sea glass marbles to prove it. Marbles that he made a game of finding, on a rocky New England beach one summer. They jumped into the palm of his hand every day as if skipping to a magnet. His charm convinces the sea to give up her treasures. The cranky cat, Jack, purrs and sleeps on his bed. Teachers and employers write recommendations that sound like fan letters. And he, just throwing himself into every game with 100% commitment and 100% goodwill, keeps racking up the points.

I might say that games are Michael’s passion. Baseball. Soccer. Nintendo. Touch football. Whiffle ball. Hockey. Playstation. Golfing. Fly fishing. Surfing. Skiing. But it’s more than that. It’s wrestling challenge to the ground. It’s not knowing, and then learning, and then mastering. Right now, he’s looking to master a mountain.

If tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would have to see his crooked smile in person one more time. Look into his blue eyes – like a husky dog’s in color, but open and trusting. Filled with curiosity. Happiness. I would be under strict orders from my mother’s heart, to see his handsome face. Run my fingers through his unruly hair and hug his lanky, lean frame. He would give me back a sure and certain hug with no self-consciousness, and a sweet kiss hello, truly glad to see me.

We would talk with ease about how he is having this amazing experience. Skiing the life of his dreams. We would visit, in his tiny room at Hostel X, looking out over the Continental Divide, and he would answer all my questions about his new life. As I listened, watching his animated face, his excitement would become my excitement. Even I, as his mother, would have to put aside my fears for his safety, fears of avalanches and broken limbs ~ and would be thrilled to hear of the jumps he nails, the crevices he leaps.

He would introduce me to the new friends he is making at the resort ~ and I would see, as they shook my hand, and talked of Michael, that they had already discovered he was something special. I would be proud, as I always have been, to be his mother. Proud when he was left in charge of catering functions at a small country club when he was a teenager. Proud when he went to San Diego without a job, and without knowing anybody, found employment in an engineering firm, and was invited to the boss’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. Proud when he maintained a 3.3 GPA at Northeastern University. Proud when he set off to Wyoming to live a four month dream of an adventure. Proud that he took me seriously, when I taught him to follow his passions.

Michael’s energy is, for me, all about joy, and if tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would have to get one more hit of that joy just in case there is no after life, and I wasn’t going to get another chance to hear his gravelly voice and his boyish laugh. I would hop a plane to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, wait at the bottom of a mountain covered with three feet of powered snow, to catch my son at the end of one of his runs, and lure him away for a brief visit. Not too long, after all, with only one day left on earth. Just long enough to imprint his face upon my heart before I leave.

]]> http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/2009/01/15/if-tomorrow/feed/ 2 ktmacd http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/2008/09/20/dont-wait/ http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/2008/09/20/dont-wait/#comments Sat, 20 Sep 2008 12:37:05 +0000 ktmacd http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/?p=53 ]]>

Here is a poem I wrote recently, as a warning not to put our creative lives on hold.  They will not wait indefinitely.

Connie Banks

Connie Banks works three jobs.

None of them are at taking care of herself

I see, as she hoists her bulky frame out from around the metal desk

in the Bead O Rama warehouse

to show me sterling silver lobster clasps.

Connie Banks makes jewelry, only when she has to.

And she makes quilts, to give as gifts.

But her passion is painting with oil pastels,

and I might see her paintings in a one woman show,

except you need quite a few to put a portfolio together.

Nevertheless, she has a project going all the time.

She has learned to paint a little every day.

She has learned that.

And she keeps her work on the kitchen table.

Right now, it’s a picture of two red roses.

But she hasn’t had time, between her three jobs

to take more photographs for inspiration.

She’s a photographer too,

though she’s tired of beach landscapes and

nautical themes on every magazine cover.

I may see Connie Banks’ paintings

at the town library in the fall.

I promise her I’ll watch for them.

“It’s nice to be asked to show your work,” I say,

“and not have to knock on closed doors.”

Connie Banks works three jobs

now that she is retired,

and shows me lobster clasps

while she should be swirling pastel oil paints

across a willing canvas.

I want to shake her by the shoulders

and say, “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Your hair is white.

Your heart is exhausted under the burden of a hundred extra pounds.

Stop giving it away to these dead concrete walls.

Stop answering my foolish questions about jewelry findings

and run out into the August sunshine with your camera,

home to your palette

and the two red roses on the kitchen table.

She arises every morning like Aphrodite, beautiful and triumphant, from a sea of clothes strewn on the floor. You can’t imagine how gorgeous she looks, coming out of that pit of hell that is her bedroom. Her jeans shredded in all the right peek-a-boo places, hugging her hips. Pastel T-shirts cropped to reveal a few inches of her six pack abs. Dark curls cascading down her shoulders. Long, black eyelashes fringing husky eyes, and full, red lips. She is, if not a goddess, at least a princess. And I, as the Queen Mother, have nobody to blame but myself.

She is my seventeen year old daughter, Maggie. It didn’t help that when she was born, I knew she would be the period at the end of my mothering sentence. This exquisite baby girl, with chestnut hair, navy eyes, and the fattest chipmunk cheeks on the planet, was allowed to sleep in our room, at an age long past when her two brothers had been relegated to the crib in their own room. She was adored by her two aging parents and two blonde-haired brothers. She was Maggie Muffins. Miss Maggie May. Maggie the Princess Angel.

And really, I only saw faint hints of the willful iron fisted personality that was to come. When I put her in her car seat, and she screamed for the duration of a long ride at the indignity of being strapped in. And whenever I took her in the stroller, not when we were outside in the neighborhood with the sun and the birds, but the moment I entered a mall, and attempted to direct the carriage into a store and her limbs would begin to flail. At those moments, I might have looked into my crystal ball and shuddered. But what good would it have done for me to peek into the future? The deed was a fait accompli, and all I would have been able to do was live it, as I have. Better for me now to remember the glorious, sunny childhood giggle days. The dolly baby cuddle days. Especially now, when to be in her presence, is to know how the monarchy must have felt in days of old when they used taste testers to avoid being slipped stricknine. True, she doesn’t hate me on all days. Not when I am taking her to Mary Lou’s for a Girl Scout Mint Cookie iced coffee with extra whipped cream. And certainly not when we are in Victoria’s Secret and I am buying her a form fitting aqua t-shirt that says something like, Girl for Hire.

But you should see her when I ask her a question about her plans for the night. Or who she is texting on her phone when we are in the car and I am hoping to chat. And worst of all, when I tell her, what to me, is so obvious I’m sure she already knows, that her room needs to be picked up. Actually, picked up and dumped somewhere in a landfill ~ but I would settle for the clothes being folded and put away. I would be thrilled if the make-up ~eyeshadows smudged on carpet, powdered blush dusting the vanity, was put back. If the bed, with the Tommy Hilfiger comforter that matches the beach theme of the room, was ever made, I would probably buy her a car. As it is, I just keep buying her more clothes to throw on the floor.

Who can say where I crossed the line between loving indulgences and indiscriminate over-indulgences? Was it when I replaced her lost dolly baby with three of the same type? Perhaps when I drove to every McDonald’s on the south shore to collect each week’s new promotional Beanie Baby with Happy Meal? It might have been when I began to rearrange my plans with my husband on the weekends so she could go to middle school dances. More likely, it was all these things, and the hundreds of other decisions I’ve made to see her smile, or have her throw her arms around my neck and hug me, or tell me “Thanks Mom, you’re the best.” So I’ve created a princess who threatens to overthrow the Queen on any given day. You watch her stride down the hall each morning, filled with confidence and poise, knowing she is adored in her Universe, and tell me I was wrong.

]]> http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/2008/07/12/she-arises-like-aphrodite/feed/ 2 ktmacd http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/2008/05/23/sea-glass-lessons/ http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/2008/05/23/sea-glass-lessons/#comments Fri, 23 May 2008 02:01:10 +0000 ktmacd http://kaleidoscopereflections.wordpress.com/?p=39 ]]>

Sea Glass Lesson #1

The Creative Process Through

the Art of Making Sea Glass Jewelry

Sea glass is my latest obsession. Passion is too gentle a word for the relationship I have with sea glass. The way that I love the shapes, colors, flaws and perfections. The pleasure I take in seeking, with an open heart, along the shore, for hidden gems among the rocks. Quiet, with only the sound of the waves beating out a rhythm of comfort ~ alone with my prayers. And though it feels spiritual, it is ME, after all, that I bring to this spiritual adventure, and me is a woman who subscribes to the “if a little is good, more must be better” mantra of living.

In theory, I know there is enough good to go around, (God knows you can’t read a single spiritual book and not be reminded of this principle). In practice, I am going to beaches as often as possible, filling plastic bags like an obsessive lover stealing kisses before parting. There have been moments I’ve recognized as the whispers of addiction. On beaches for example, when my daughter has to use a bathroom so bad she is running back to the car, and I can’t wrench my eyes from the sand, for fear of missing a frosted aqua or pink gem. Some of my sea glass is for my private collection. I have a two inch peach frosted perfume bottle stopper. A marble swirled in black and white. An amethyst bottle top. But much of my collection is now being used for my next creative pursuit ~ sea glass jewelry.

I think what I love most about making the jewelry, besides the tactile satisfaction of running my fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the sea glass and appreciating the colors and shapes, is the way each piece is unique and unrepeatable. For a girl who thinks kaleidoscopes, mosaics, and snowflakes are the epitome of creative truth, each of my sea glass pendants reminds me that creativity is always about change, growth, and surprise.

The reason I love writing and making art is because, finally, finally, I don’t have to stay pinned down in place. I MUST, if I want to be a writer and artist, allow myself to surrender to the flow and be taken to unexplored territory. There is the unexplored artistic territory ~ experimenting with pink wire when before I used only silver, or learning how to swirl beads through loops of wire when before I used to hug the glass. But there is also the unexplored territory of my personal landscape, because I have discovered, that if I am deeply engaged with my art, I am also deeply engaged with myself.

I wrestle, with wire and sea glass, using patience to wedge a small piece snug against a larger one. I use wire to bind them in a way that I hope will give birth to a beautiful pendant with crystals that catch the light as they dance on a coil of silver. On my spiritual journey, I am wrestling, too, with myself, using patience to wedge a small piece of confidence snug against a larger piece of trust. I use faith to bind them in a way that I hope will give birth to a woman more mature spiritually. I may be obsessed, but finally, I am hungry for something that can fill me up.

Here is a picture of a work in progress.…..

Using it as a jumping off point for contemplation and reflection, I wrote the following……

This piece taught me that thin is not always better and prissy is not always perfect. Each time I pick up this piece, I’m closer to taking it apart, even though I love the placement of each crystal, and the cage swirls, if done in heavier wire, would have been perfect. Also, this wire does not respect the glass ~ windshield glass ~ sturdy, practical, safety glass, wrapped in delicate strands of gold.  It’s wrong ~ all wrong. Why is it so hard for me to admit mistakes? Because I have such high hopes for my success? Because I’ve invested time? Because I don’t need any further confirmation that I’m a screw up? I wish to be ~ in spirit ~ like my sea glass jewelry. Intricate and delicate. Curious and intriguing. Playful and happy. Whimsical, colorful, sparkling, and above all…beautiful.

My instinct was to trash this piece, but I think now, it can be salvaged. If I tighten the wire, tweak it a bit, someone will want it. My time and talent will not be trashed. My hard, though imperfect work will enrich someone’s life. Like my mothering. Done imperfectly, but with enough devotion to help produce three fine, human beings. It isn’t my perfectionism that has served me well, it’s my willingness to stay with the task, cleaning up the mistakes as best as possible, resolving to learn from them, doing the best I can with what I have to work with.

Here’s what the piece taught me ~ there’s no shame in outgrowing your previous “best.” I’m learning how to do sea glass wraps, and there is value and joy in the learning. So what if two weeks ago, I was patting myself on the back for how beautiful this piece was, and tonight I see its flaws? The fun is in the maturation of all art ~ even the art of one’s life. Who ever told me I didn’t get to be a beginner? A novice? An understudy? I honor all of my work as the necessary stepping stone to where I am now. I honor all of my life as the necessary stepping stone to who I am now.

I am going to take tools to this piece to tighten and tweak. If it works, and I can salvage it ~ great! If not, I will take it apart and try something new. With each piece I build confidence. Not in my ability to make beautiful pendants, but in my willingness to call myself a working artist. An Experiential Creative. A child at play. A willing conduit for Spirit. My ego wants each piece to be perfection. My soul wants to step into the Mystery with glass, beads, and wire, and be willing to create and accept the results, without judgment.

What this piece has taught me is….not every creation has to be amazing to be satisfying. Not every blog that I write has to be amazing to be satisfying. I can relax into my work, into my life, and feel a contentment that is mine not because I’ve achieved perfection, but because I’ve experienced, for a moment, the pleasure of being fully human.

Here is what the pendant looked like after I went back with a more refined technique.

The differences, to be sure, are subtle. But so are the incremental changes in my spiritual growth. For today, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I gave the best I had to offer.

Nancy Aronie’s workshop was the first writing workshop I went to in 2006 when I first began to write faithfully. I remember the first prompt I wrote to ~ A Time I Wasn’t Invited. I remember that circle of writers who shared their individual stories, written with gut level honesty, with openness and trust. Nancy is genius at creating a safe space for the writer’s voice, and if you like to write, I highly recommend one of her workshops. I’m very happy now to be contributing as one of her regular bloggers on her online writing community. Check out my work, and the work of my online friends.

http://writingfromtheheart.wordpress.com/bloggers-readers-writing/

They cannot translate the song of a chickadee volleying with the call of a cardinal. They cannot speak birdsong, or jazz, or rock and roll. They are limited, vague tools ~ clumsy even in the poet’s hand for much work. Like trying to pick a lock with a jackhammer. Like trying to do counted cross stitch with a knitting needle. Words, though I love them, are not up to the task of translating the distinct and unique song each of my children plays upon my heart. Three exquisite chimes ~ all pleasing to the ear, but how can I help you to know that unless I can run my fingers across the chimes themselves? Be the wind upon which they play? Can I tell you of purple, pink, orange, blue, if you have not seen them first?
Words are all I have. Were I an artist, I could paint in abstract swirls that which cannot be spoken ~ and you, letting the color dance wash over you ~ would feel it in that place we all share that is deeper than language. Or if I were a musician, who crafted with sound haunting melody, impending danger, falling in love, you would hum with me, note to note. Music is unambiguous. Words are grasping at straws.
Words are Plato’s shadows on the cave. They are the hint of a wisp of a smoke that escapes from the fire, but not the fire itself. Close enough to touch, but not touched. Words cannot be the breeze on your cheek. Words cannot be the color palette of a rainbow. Nor a garden. Nor love. They cannot translate except in metaphor and simile. What is a metaphor but an elegant tool to try to unlock the thing itself? Like a schoolgirl in love. Like a ship without sail. Like a fly buzzing against the pane of glass, I am a poet vainly trying to enter within. Bruised and tired, words are still my passion.

Who would ever know a rose

if she shunned it for its thorns?

Velvet dusk of petals ~

opening lips. An invitation kiss

to fall deeper

under the spell

into the scent

to a heart plump

with promise seeds.

Who would ever win a pearl

if she grew weary of plumbing secrets?

Shell protected luminescence

burrowed in moist, warm flesh

quivering with the hope

of being freed.

Every gift comes bearing grief

in direct proportion to its worth.

The daughter burrows,

claiming as her own

the chambers of your heart ~

riding like a surfer

the waves of each intake

and outtake of your breath.

Until with mastery

prepared for solo flight,

with no regret,

she’ll say good-bye.

Every gift comes bearing grief

but oh the joy of bittersweet

to know you’ve lived

with open palms

the finest prayer allowed us here.

Looking for More Flow

I’m looking for more flow.  In my hair and in my life.  In the spirit of autumnal renewal, when women realize they need a new haircut, a new wardrobe, a new home, or at the very least, new organizing Tupperware, I decided to let my hairdresser do something different last week.

Different is not usually what I allow her to do.  Usually, I say something like this.  “Cut the back two inches down my neck.  You know how I like the bangs, shorter in the middle, longer on the sides.  Hair no longer than three inch layers all around, angled around my cheekbones, and no longer than my chin.  There, now go have fun with that artistic license I’ve left you.”

And she, sweet as can be for five years, always, gives me exactly what I want.  Then I go home, and rewash and blow it dry, to get more of exactly what I want.

But this week, I was feeling reckless and tired of wearing a hairstyle that didn’t blow in the breeze.  On the Yoga mat, I had noticed how good I was at holding on to a pose, and how bad I was at flowing into a pose.  I have a friend, who annoys the hell out of me, when she says, “how we do one thing, is how we do everything.”  Helpful advice to me, a self admitted spiritual seeker.  But like all truths that ring with the sweet notes of chalk squeaking across a blackboard, I couldn’t stop noticing how I do everything.

Like my hair. Foamed with mousse.  Blown dry with precision on a round wire brush.  Hair sprayed with extra “hold that style into the next millennium” spray.  I finish with  hairspray to the ends of my fingertips, and come up from underneath my bangs to get that just right air tousled look.  When I am done, my hairstyle looks perfect and chic, or like a helmet, depending upon whether you are asking me or my daughter.  I feel safe and protected ~ from the wind, from the rain, from flying objects at my head.

But recently, the “how you do one thing is how you do everything” mantra was dancing through my day, when I realized that the way I approach my hair ritual is a metaphor for my life.  I use resolve, care, discipline and force of will to get what I need to feel safe at all costs.  Safe from a bad hair day.  Safe from looking in the mirror and being surprised by unruly locks. My hair was only one example of the way I micro manage everything in my life.  I like to control surprises the way air traffic controllers do.  Zero tolerance.

So this week, I went to the hairdresser, saw her swinging, kicky hair, that moved when she did, and told her I wanted that haircut.  The kind where the long side bangs occasionally fall into your eyes, and you have to brush them behind your ear.  A flippant, breezy, I don’t need styling products kind of do…because I’m all about the flow.  “Well” she said, “we can definitely do that.  It is all in how you cut it.  We’ll have to grow your sides out a little, just down to here, and then I will texturize it.  All I do is blow dry my bangs, and turn my head upside down and dry, and I’m done!”

Perfect.  The new me would have hair that wasn’t afraid of the wind.  I would get dangling earrings to go with my natural haircut.  My hair and I would announce to the world, that I knew how to go with the flow and let go of perfect.  I knew how to shrug my shoulders and accept that I have baby fine strands of hair, stick straight, except for the coarse, shiny grays that like to stand on end.  Why, not only would I be casual about my hair, but I would Let Go and Let God have a go at my finances, my relationships, my make-up drawer.

The new me is looking an awful lot these days like the old me, except with a bad haircut.  I can’t put down the can of mousse.  I cheat, and roll the ends of my hair on the round brush to force a flip.  I shake my head and try to spray at the same time, to capture a windblown, “who cares about my hair anyway” look.  A week into the new me this much is clear.  All I’m doing is flowing from one bad hair day into another.

“I don’t think this new haircut is working out” I say to a friend, in part to let her know that I know my hair is looking horrid.  “Why?  You don’t like it?” she says.  “Like it?” I think.  How could I, a woman of my taste, possibly like this?”  Does it look fine to her?  This worries me.  Does she not see the marked difference between how gorgeous I looked a month ago, and how unkempt I look now?  Are my beauty rituals wasted on friends and loved ones who can not distinguish between finely coiffed and frankly crappy?

I don’t want to give up on the shapeless, yet flowing hair too soon.  For one thing, it would be great to be free of the perpetual sticky coating on the bathroom tiles from hairspray.  Great to discover, that maybe I don’t have to hold on with a death grip to the way it’s always been.  Not my hair.  Not my body.  Not my usual response to life.  Maybe I will learn to flow with the best of them.  Ghandi.  Mother Theresa.  The Buddha.  Or maybe I’ll just get a haircut.

For many months now, I have been working on a collaborative book, a collection of personal essays, with a group of other writers, with the intention of putting together a compelling argument for why writing is central to who we are as women, and how we navigate the ebbs and flows in our lives. A collection that was fearless in its willingness to stand in our Voices. Also, an invitation, we might have hoped, for other women to own all the parts of their stories that make them who they are.

Well, the collaborative has fallen apart…and I’m left today with an energy that feels like a deflated balloon that went from buoyant, to buzzing around the room angrily while losing lift, to laying limp, soggy, and shriveled on the carpet. How to regroup, when I feel exhausted, angry, and defeated? Everyone else in the group appears to be moving on, but this is so like me. Always just a little behind in the processing of feelings. Just now feeling, “Oh, I have been affected. I am hurt.”

Julia Cameron might call this a “Creative U-turn. I do feel like I am at a crossroads. Will I take my chapters, some of which I am quite proud of, and look for places to submit them? Will I sigh and decide that I was never meant to be published and go back to writing for myself, family and friends? Will I remember how good it felt to work to deadline on a project that stretched me as a writer; and decide that tagging on to other peoples’ agendas isn’t necessary? Because this wasn’t my idea originally ~ but it sounded like a good one, and it was a reason to write. And it wasn’t my deadline, or my agent ~ but it sounded like a way to write and have my writing seen. And we all threw out prompts, and like an exuberant puppy, I wrote to all of them, but I didn’t clarify my vision for the book, until it was all finished, and I realized we hadn’t written one. It is not the first time in my life I looked to others to take the lead.

I’m in that uncomfortable place where I don’t know what is next. I have no chapters to polish, no book proposal to write. One of my classes is coming to an end, and I don’t know how I want my workshops to proceed. I do know this. I love to write. I write for my life ~ to unravel it, understand it, honor it. That is not a collaborative effort ~ but a singular endeavor. That I can and must do alone.