Around 2016/17 (unless a kid was born in a year, I really can’t keep things straight), I started taking my writing seriously. My soul demanded it. Even if I thought I was just sitting down to dabble at fiction, or even humor, the writing would turn into memoir as soon as I sank into my creative brain. My body demanded it. Unprocessed trauma and self-destructive patterns of overwork and self-flagellation were eroding my health. But it felt like the slow clank-clank-clank ascent to the biggest downhill drop on a rollercoaster, the one that supplies the momentum to get you through the loop-de-loos. I had the sense that I couldn’t get off the coaster, but I was terrified of what might happen when I crested the hill and the ride really began.
There are some things that we don’t really decide to do. Rather, we accept, bit by bit, that we know they must be done. Each progressive step we take backfills the map of where we are headed, and we might have the sense to stop and recognize that what was terrifying has now become familiar— perhaps not comfortable or easy, but familiar. Writing, sharing, publishing, submitting, editing (for money!), and naming myself “Writer” all belong to me now. They always did. I knew somewhere inside that those were true parts of me, but I had to accept each activity, each expansion of identity bit by bit. Doing so for the first time(s) scared me.
Think of Dorothy Gale from Kansas. She had what she needed for the journey set before her, but she needed a ragtag band of partners to reveal her to herself. And they needed her. So often the piece we are most convinced we are missing—heart, brain, courage, plans—is right there under the surface begging to be acknowledged. A lot of the time, others can see it before we can.
Now imagine the four of them in that rollercoaster cart about to dive down the hill. Looks pretty fun, right? Or if rollercoasters aren’t your thing, fill in your own analogy (can’t expect me to do ALL the work).
I had Scarecrows, Tinmen, and Lions come around me when I was most afraid that I couldn’t begin (let alone complete) the writing journey set before me. And, no, it wasn’t only about writing. It’s never only about one thing; that’s part of why it is so scary. It was about fighting lies, grieving loss, acknowledging limitations (and strengths!), getting back on stages, and untethering my brave imagination.
Whatever you may have before you, the things you know—but maybe can’t yet believe—you must do, you need people to help you crest the hill. And there are many hills! I have a passion for supporting and empowering people to see in themselves what they so badly long to find. Sure, some people are deluded about their own potential, but in my experience, they don’t tend to have much doubt. Doubt is a good indicator that you may be on to something.
My favorite American teachers are Julia Child, Bob Ross, Fred Rogers, and Julia Cameron. Why? Because each of them operates/d from the view that everyone can and should have access to the best parts of themselves. They also love/d to share treasure rather than hoard it. People who care and share are the best, and I want to be one of them as I grow up.
I had a picture in my mind in 2019 of a place on Whidbey Island where I could breathe, explore, create, and invite others to do the same in little, temporary-but-highly-influential communities. In 2020 (look at me keeping track of years!!), we bought a place that far exceeded even my imagination. And now I’m ready to facilitate the creation of renewing, encouraging cohorts.
On a retreat at Huckleberry House, you will eat well, meet new friends, see things in yourself that you need to see, and get some work done. At the first one, a songwriter, a couple of poets, a writer cloaked in teacherhood, a therapist, and I engaged in discussion, responded to creative prompts (many borrowed from Ms. Cameron), laughed, and cried.
I would love to talk with you about how one of my retreats, a residency, or a collaboration could help you on your rollercoaster ride!
