Holding on is the work of this day. We are all trying to keep track, stay steady, manage our everything. And then we spill something, arrive late, can’t remember. The pandemic, the war, the social rifts we struggle to process are all taxing our brains and spirits. And then we lose our notebook, or the computer swallows the file. And that file, that notebook contain our hearts and our poems, our characters and our creative dreams. The word lost means so much more now, and it always meant more than we could stand already. How do we grab back what slipped from our fingers? How do we step back into those words?
Several weeks ago, my glasses broke into several small pieces in my hands. Like everyone who needs glasses, an instant vulnerability arrived along with panic. I need to see. I brought my poor, wounded spectacles to the local eye shop and presented them to a man with an outstretched hand. “Yes,” he said. “Please sit for a moment.” I thought he was being polite, certain that he would return instantly and tell me that the glasses were hopeless. I spent the next few minutes rapidly going through my finances to figure out how I would afford a new pair. The man came from the back room and handed me my glasses. Repaired. Fixed. Better than new. I tried not to embarrass him and me by crying, saying thank you a dozen times. He gently said, “Not at all. Happy to help.” My next stop was the grocery store, and as I put necessaries into my cart, I thought, “Thank you isn’t enough. I can see!” I bought a chocolate marble Bundt cake and a bag of honey crisp apples, returned to the eye shop and offered them as gratitude. The man put his hands together and bowed slightly, then spread his arms and said, “You have made us all so happy!” We both laughed, and again I tried not to cry. Loss and recovery. Vulnerability and restoration.
When we lose our writing, it is devastating. We are flung into a blank landscape without solid footing. We grope and despair. But there is a guide to help us back to our stories and poems. It’s a bit like the man going into the back room. Set everything else aside and sit quietly, perhaps with eyes closed. Let your mind settle and then let it wander. This is the same as remembering a vivid dream. Nothing has gone away; it’s all still there in that back room. As you wander, you’ll begin to notice parts of what you lost: a bit of description, a line or two of dialogue; the rhythm of the language, emotion and tone, or an image that held the essence of what you want to say. You will gather up enough, more than enough to piece together what you lost. It won’t be exactly the same, but it will be close, and, like the glasses, perhaps the next, improved draft of what you had originally written. “The strands are all there; to the memory nothing is ever lost.” Eudora Welty.
Events
Writing Workshop Tuesday Mornings are Back! There are still open spots: three hours each week that will lift you up and settle your nerves. March 15 – May 17, 2022. 9:30 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. EST. Each writer will have the opportunity to bring in a manuscript for peer review using the AWA Method. $500/prorated. maureen@maureenbjones.com
Maud & Addie is a finalist in the Indie Awards Book of the Year contest sponsored by Foreword Reviews!
Prompt Photo
Painting by Gordon K. Grant. Currently at the Ventura CA Post Office
