Madeline Island

 A Week on Madeline Island.

1. I laid on the bed after unpacking, still and trying to breathe deeply. Almost spread eagle on my back and willing myself to connect. “My head is on a pillow, my right leg has an itch, my heart is pounding, my mind is racing, come back to this room, this place, yourself. keep breathing.”  Out of nowhere or perhaps everywhere, the tears came. What a fucking year. What. A. Fucking. Year. I have not been alone in any room for more than 15 minutes. My teens, my blessed lovely, overwrought and mysterious boy and girl feel almost like extra skins I have been wearing and I want to shed them. My husband, secure and devoted and who does not carry the emotional labor of raising kids in the same way I do. It’s just different for us. At any rate, I cried for a million reasons and for none. Time passed and I can’t say how much. One thought emerged: Here I am.

2. This place! Step outside and my eyes feast on bright red buildings trimmed in crisp white. I see butterflies! Butterflies! Floating everywhere because the flowers are meant just for them. Everyday I walk past a clump of blooming milkweed and I am gifted with the sight of butterflies taking in their fill. I walk different paths each day just to see what I see, a pattern of light, a mist rising, a new wildflower. I love the shift from crunching gravel to quiet and wet grass. It means a new adventure.

   
   
   

3. Sitting around that table the first morning with my classmates- that feeling is like a first day of college. I won’t say high school because I knew everyone for 13 years. Graduating with 28 students provided me with little first day of school jitters about people. I always knew what I was getting. Having gotten out of the practice of meeting new people. I felt especially awkward for no real reason but the good thing is: we were all in the same boat. So wild: the pandemic is a unifier no matter how varied the experience. One thing I am happy to note: with age comes this softening. I judge less and less based on quips and appearance and background. Maybe it’s my years working on a listening practice in jails and middle schools and working with ESL students. All I know is that if I sort of prepare to be surprised there are no surprises. Stay open…..keep that mantra. I always know when my antidepressants are failing or I have gotten off track- I start judging, casting negative glows, feeling my headspace become dark about myself and everyone. So grateful at this moment, for this week that I was clear, in cahoots with me. I see generous, hopeful, dedicated people. I am not wrong.

4. Reading my work, whether fresh or refurbished, is still a bit daunting. I hate that my voice can get wobbly. I actually feel pretty good about my public speaking skills but reading my work- I am rusty. But it’s more than that. I am connecting to this work for the first time in a few years. The words are familiar and not. It is a gift, this time, to re-read and say, “I wrote that?” and feel good. I am not crazy that I wanted to write this Iowa book. 

5. The gift of gathering with other writers and instructors who help navigate is getting out of your head or just putting the crazy on display so others can shed new light. It is impossible to see from on high when you are deep inside the middle. I think the best part of this whole week was simple illumination. Letting my work be seen and hearing from people who believe in me and insisting I keep moving my way forward with this particular work, my Iowa book. 

6. I am humbled by the stories around me. The heartbreak and mystery and sheer grit and perseverance of this group is astounding. What unites us, despite the nuances in our stories, is we are all seekers. We write to understand, make sense, stake claim on what was and what has become. This sounds stupid and oh so obvious, but alone in my shabby office typing away, I forget there a million me’s out there doing the same thing. As alone as I am, I am not and that feeling, that energy, is worth experiencing because this hit of, “I am not alone” re-energizes me.

7. There are musicians in the group who share their voices and songs and it is so wonderful and unexpected. Music was not on my mind when I signed up to work on my memoir and yet on my return trip, I found Rhinestone Cowboy on my phone and played it and other music from my Iowa childhood. Another gift, another way into what I lived.

8. It takes so little to shift my perspective. As I listen to each person and get sucked into their story, it usually gives me some little nugget that I chew on and then consider in my own story. Another gift of a writing community.

9. I rest each day. I nap without guilt. I wake at 4:30 a.m. a few mornings to catch the sunrise and the loons. Around 6:30 a.m. I crawl back into bed with coffee, a book, my laptop, and then I doze and/or write some more. There has rarely been a time when each hour feels so completely mine. 

   
   
   

10. This island enchants me. I love the town and state park. I love the loons who seem to be there each time I show up early just for me. I love the “city” beach and ferry landing. I love the weird sunflowers made out of old farming implements. I love the bizarre bar that burned down and resurrects itself out of rock and Christmas lights and particle board. Strangely, it boasts an ATM. I didn’t love the one man sporting a Trump t-shirt, clearly agitating with each stride down the main street. Soon enough I forget him, a small progress for me. I love the curve in the road I slowly take because I will pull over and gasp, my first broad look at the lake in all its glory. I am disappointed because of the wildfire haze. Though it has made the sunrise and sunset a funky color, I do not get my bright blue sky and I try hard not to let that sink me, the worries of climate change. I mean I worry, but I strive to stay inside myself for myself.

    
    
    

11. I eat. I take pleasure in food and in the fact that no one seems to be monitoring themselves. This is unusual around women. I notice so many eating with pleasure and no one really talking about their diet. After years living in an eating disordered world, this is a gift I cannot overstate.

12. I eat more than food. I digest time, large chunks of it, with gusto. Time to write and just think. I mean, that sounds weird but each walk is just time to let my mind relax, wander, sift or float through whatever. This feels like the biggest luxury of all. I think this is what the word rest really means. I did write. I did what I wanted, which was reconnect to some writing. And I also let myself be and do what my body and mind longed for. I cried and slept and ate and wrote and remembered that in order to create, it’s important first to be still, to pay attention, and tend to yourself. 

I did that and it was such a gift.