So, hubby Rob was asked to participate at a Writing Retreat a couple of weeks ago. Yes, Rob is a published writer. (Q: Oh, so is that why you write? A: No! I have always written. Since I was a little kid. I just don't write fiction. Well, not long fiction. I have written many short stories, but any time I try to write something longer I end up writing about myself. So perhaps I have some stuff I need to work through. Thus, le blog.) [This is the conversation I always thought I would have once I started publicly writing. And sadly, I did. And I do.] He was to share some of his writing and lead a couple of writing workshops. The setting could not have been more idyllic: Curtis, Michigan. Not the mainland of Michigan, this was the Upper Peninsula. Yeah, I hadn't heard of it either. It was absolutely gorgeous! A resort town on the shores of Lake Manistique. I was struck by the fierce pride of the people of the UP (or Youpers, as they good-naturedly refer to themselves). They were quick to share names of other UP writers, filmmakers, artists. They had a charm and enthusiasm that seemed very familiar. Perhaps because I also hail from a peninsula? There is something about peninsular living. We live in an area of such breathtaking natural beauty and are completely happy to be hours away from the hustle and bustle that is synonymous with the famous city to our south.
Anyway, I was in a really good space. I had just faced one major fear two days before at our choir concert by singing a duet out loud in front of real live people. And I didn't die! (-AMR) You see, my whole plan in choral singing was never to be heard. Just blend. I was horrified when Rob (who is also in the choir) would say after a rehearsal, "I could hear you tonight" with a smile in his voice. To me, that meant I was singing too loud, too clearly, too something. But this semester we were doing a rendition of the U2 song I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (interesting...). I have been belting that song out in a succession of living rooms (all my own) for over 25 years. I knew every nuance of that song. And I had to sing it. So I did. It was nerve-wracking and vomit-inducing. But man, it felt good. And I know now that I will be able to do that again and again.
So, back to the retreat. I was still on a high from the concert. From facing my fears. And here I was with an opportunity to do it all over again. If I could gather the courage to read some of my writing it could help dispel the perception that I was just Rob's + 1 at the retreat, but as I hadn't really planned ahead and brought anything, the only piece I could lay my hands on so far away from home was this blog.
Really? Could I actually share that? My one piece that was so gut-wrenching to write that I hadn't revisited it for almost a whole year? You know what though? Facing fears can be kinda addictive. I mean, really! What is the point of being here anyway? On the planet here, I mean. I never remember quotes, but one that will always stay with me (probably because it's only two words) is by E.M. Forster: only connect. That is what I strive for. So I read my piece on the first night of the retreat. And again, I didn't die. (-AMR) I was so touched by the response. It was warm and positive. People described it as "dynamic" and "powerful". Rob said it set the tone for the whole weekend; one of honesty and safety. But there was one response that totally blew me away. It was from a birth mother.
No, don't get excited. Of course she wasn't my birth mother! Just one of many women who have given up their babies. I've met so many adoptees; how funny to just now be meeting a birth mother. Who knows? Maybe I've met many, but they just haven't offered that pertinent little kernel of info. This incredibly brave woman shared some of her story with me. She was gracious enough to say that she had never thought of the other side of the story; how unfair it was to the child. I was grateful that she didn't feel that she had to describe the whys and wherefores of her decision. But she did share that they had found each other later in the child's life, that it was a good reunion and continued to be a meaningful relationship until his untimely death. (That was unexpected! I had never thought of the child dying.) Yet there was no regret in her voice. No remorse. And there was no judgement in mine as I thanked her. She had made her peace with the whole situation.
I wondered how much it cost her to tell her story.
I got so much from that weekend! There is just something about unabashedly sharing your thoughts and words that is so freeing. One woman (who wanted to give me a hug after I read my piece) told me at the end of the weekend that she thought I was able to write things that not everyone is able to articulate. I hope that will always be the case.
I made some friendships there that I feel certain will last for a very long time. I remember conversations I had with each and every one of them -- some after a few glasses of wine, some over knitting, some around the bonfire, some after our morning walks, some after an innocent misunderstanding. I know that others felt the same way. In fact, a writing group was created right there and then at dinner one night!
I will always treasure them.
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