When I lie down on my back for chavasana at the end of yoga, the crescent moon is above me in the sky, tender and dear in the blue of late morning. I swim the breast stroke in my mother’s pool and watch the ridge when I swim north. It is the same ridge I gazed at from the living room when she was sick. I count my row of yuccas while I swim, though they are no longer in bloom. When I get to the bird walk the leader is speaking in his warm, relaxed voice. It is a big group today. I look around for my two other favorite people, but they are not here. I struggle with my disappointment, reach for the treetops, the sound of the leader’s voice, splashing water in the distance. I can still be here, I tell myself, still tap the deep peace of this place. I can still have a sweet time. In moments, I steady. Then as if conjured the woman I like so much from before is beside me, and I hear the man I like up ahead of us making jokes in his resonant voice. Later, I think about how the leader draws us together, about what a gift he is offering, maybe without knowing. I think about his warmth, his charming lack of ego, his quiet, cheerful knowledge. I think about what a rare bird he is. (Pun intended.) We walk together, rearranging ourselves, clusters and strings of us along the trails, a small, fluid river, California towhees, an ash-throated flycather, a black-headed grossbeak in flight, a green heron across the lake, the old oaks speaking acorn woodpecker. After the bird walk I sit on a wooden bench, a black phoebe sitting nearby, and then I walk by myself through the rose garden. I take slow steps, reluctant to leave. I can feel how even in such a short time, the place has changed me, helped me ground, settle, rest inside. This extraordinary world has worked its magic.
In my arms
old square woven basket
full of dirty clothes
I walk up the small road
and feel a rush of tenderness
On my way back home
dried cactus fruit lie in the road
and I look up to see
a house finch devouring a fresh one
at the top of the tall cactus.
She is almost inside the fruit itself.
I watch her for a long time
and her big delight
washes through me.
I love you because each time I come to the path in the early morning you surprise me by being there, as if each time I leave I forget you exist. I love you because you foster life, lushness, because you are untamed and unexpected. The frogs sing you. The swifts dive and the hawks and ravens glide above you. The egrets wade in you, steps careful and quiet, breathing you in. I love you because the rabbits come close to your edges, cautious, fuzzy, delighted. For so long you were not here, and I know soon you will disappear again. My bones dance, loose beside you, grateful. When you are gone I will love your empty bed even as the greens fade. I will love your bed because even in its browns and dusty colors it is a wild place in the middle of our neighborhoods. I will stand on the footbridge and pull that long endless wilderness inside me. I will drench myself in the memory of your water.
This is the letter I’ve sent out to let people know about these two upcoming writing opportunities I’ll be leading. I thought I would post it here for all of you, too, just in case one of you might be interested (my dear readers!). ;-)
1) Online creative writing class
This is a 3-unit full-semester online class offered at Mendocino College. We’ll cover key aspects of creative writing—including image detail, slow motion, point of view, dialogue, plot, narrative presence and character—and you’ll have lots of chances to try your hand with each element. Each two weeks will include a spontaneous writing exercise, workshopping a more “polished” piece, and a discussion about process or craft. This is a great way for new writers to get their feet wet and experienced writers to stretch or refresh their skills, as well as a lovely opportunity to interact with other writers and get some good feedback on your work.
Steps for enrolling
(You will only need to apply, complete the placement questionnaire and enroll.)
2) Spontaneous creative nonfiction writing retreat
November 22nd through 24th
Joshua Tree Retreat Center
This will be three days spent writing spontaneous creative nonfiction, telling our own stories. Because the writing is impromptu, the feedback will focus on specific positive aspects of the work. Great food and glorious desert setting included. Participation is limited, so please reserve your spot early. ($100 discount when you register by August 31st.)
Please email or call if you have any questions. I hope to have the chance to work together soon!
The fireworks are over. A relief, just lingering quiet pops now. I didn’t sleep well again last night, woke tired, a little sad, that longing to be well. But when I caught my eye in the bathroom mirror this morning, I was touched with tenderness for myself. My first real day off in the week since I’ve been back home, room to recover, restore. Long, slow yoga in the shade of the trailer. Funny food plan pancakes with avocado. In the late afternoon, the first sound of the cicadas this summer surprise me from the courtyard. The town has emptied out now. Later than usual? I can cross the busy streets near my home without long waits. Summer has come for us this year with a luxurious, light touch. I take a short nap, then walk out into the warm air to see the crescent moon hanging above the mountains, big round orb, too, in silhouette. I completely mess up my new phone, lose almost everything I’ve put into place. But I don’t throw it at the wall or stomp on it. I don’t even get angry. I think that’s a good sign. Still more quiet pops. The swamp cooler in the back room. And crickets in the courtyard, happy on the 4th of July.