I hardly know what to say.
I could tell you about the trip to Mexico for 13 people that I had to cancel last week – three days before we were set to leave – a trip that all of us were looking forward to, that we had made plans for and spent money on. I could tell you about the difficulty of making the decision, even though the media hadn’t really detailed what non-essential travel was a week ago. How sunny it was in Mexico – how the virus hadn’t even exactly gotten there yet. I could tell you about the stress of disappointing people, of making the wrong decision, and the relief some people had that I had made the hard decision for them, how one friend said she was ready to follow me across the border because she was a good girl and didn’t want to disappoint anyone. And how well I understood that.
How sometimes the hardest decisions are the right ones if you listen to your gut.
I could tell you about my 83-year-old mother, Suzanne in L.A. How when Mexico was cancelled, I said, I’m coming to you, and she said, “Darling, I adore you, stay where you are.” Not because she didn’t want my company, but because she was practicing a kind of social distancing before she even knew the term. Decided she would be okay, that she was flooded with friends in L.A. And now of course, it’s mostly just my mom and her yappy dogs, though my sweet brother promises to drop by with groceries.
I could tell you about the FaceTime call she and I had two nights ago where I admonished her, “Mom, are you taking this seriously enough?”
“Oh yes, Darling,” she said, “I’m taking this very seriously,” and promptly put the phone on the piano and began to play and sing with the biggest smile on her face. Not because she was making lite, but because she was becoming light. And the way my face broke open in one of those genuine smiles that almost hurt, as she sang, bungling the words and the chords to some Broadway tune – how imperfectly perfect it was – the sound of her, the joy in her, the painting of my father, ten years gone, that my ex-husband, Mark Wagner had done, hanging on the wall behind her, smiling down on her.
I could tell you about my friend, whose husband has been in the hospital in our town for years, how she has been with him all day, every day for the last five years, how she was suddenly locked out of the hospital last week and had to say goodbye to him, gathering her things and being ushered out. And while she is communicating with him many times a day through FaceTime, she is also finding herself alone for the first time in years and trying to remember who she is, and what she does when she is not caring for her husband.
I could tell you about taking all of my classes online last week – even the class for cancer patients at the hospital – and what it was like to sit together – all of us in tiny boxes on the screen and write and read our stories to one another. How if you don’t have a Zoom account, get one.
I could tell you how, at year 30 of this Wild Writing practice, I saw again how incredibly vital it was to people and to me. A life line. And now, with social distancing, how luscious the simple act of gathering is. How it’s like melted chocolate in your mouth. How we can practically reach out into the screen and touch one another. Hello friend, I see you. Talk to me. Tell me everything.
I could tell you how I told all my Wild Writing trainees not to wait until they got their fancy certificates from me in May, that they should start teaching now, that it’s really about circling and holding space and setting a table for truth and poetry, and how any kind of perfectionism and what it means to teach “right,” has to be thrown to the frogs. That perfectionism is boring right now, because what matters more is connection and love. How one student put up her website in one day, and another starting blogging from her apartment in Florence, Italy.
Nothing like a little pandemic to put the fire under your tush to get you going.
How when I got back from our little market a couple of days ago, I felt compelled to clean my pantry and do laundry and change my sheets. I was bursting with energy.
And the older woman at the market staring at empty shelves and how I asked her what she was looking for and she said it wasn’t there.
Which prompts me to ask, what are we looking for and what is here?
The ads for jeans and face creams that still come into my in box confuse me.
The sound of the garbage truck on Thursday morning comforts me. Some things will go on. I hope.
The posole I made for my daughter yesterday fed us both, and there is enough for Mark when he comes to visit. The fire I lit last night, how Ruby and I sat here in the glow, quietly.
And my youngest, many states away, who promises me that she is alright and will stay put.
And music, all day and into the night.
And the mind which zips around like some trapped creature, sometimes afraid, sometimes calm and steady.
The quote from Clarissa Pinkola Estes from her piece, We Were Made For These Times, when she writes at the end, “When a great ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are built for.”
And how now more than ever, I am clear about my work and what I do. I will do more of it. I will write and teach and show up.
Please be in touch. Say hello. Come write with us soon. New classes will be posted in the coming weeks. We need each other now.
I am sending everyone love and peace.
Love,
Laurie
Photo: Suzy at the piano.
Now more than ever, writing is a beautiful way to chart our course through these times. If you’d like to begin your practice today, here are 27 beautiful and short videos to get you on your way.
I was so touched by your piece. You are indeed an incredible writer and an inspiiration I often think of our wonderful time in San Miguel with the two of you and that awessoe group of women you surrounf=d yourself with and wondered why I have not done it again.
Hope to see you soon some day, this too shall pass.
Beautiful, Laurie. xo
So beautiful! This made me laugh and cry.
As your writing often does, Laurie, this piece touched the deep place that turns on my tears. The good kind, the consoling kind, the impossible-logic “all will be well” kind. Bless you, your loved ones, the work of bringing us light. Love, Karen
wow laurie, just wow. #CanIGetAnAmen
this is the time for love, patience, compassion. we are all being called. can you feel it?! I can. the secret beauty of it is that we are all in this together.
deep gratitude to you sister. and everyone here.
Laurie
Love this! ♥️
Can we use that prompt this week? … I could tell you..,
Gorgeous, Laurie. Yes, we will continue to write and teach and to show up. Perfectly imperfectly. Keep shining your beacon for many.
Love you, Laurie — and please send me love to Suzy & Ruby, too. Thanks for bringing us together. You are a beacon!
Hi Laurie,
This is the first thing I opened in my email today, drawn by the title. My guiding word this year is Light.
Your writing is a beautiful gift of these times we are in – the ways we are being held by the light, in connection with each other despite social distance, and the sensitive feelings we are carrying as life changes for us.
Thank you for sharing every word and the photograph of your light-filled mom and dad.
I could identify with every story here, right down to the garbage truck this morning, that didn’t irritate me with its noise, for the first time ever. And you helped me to realize why.
My heart is with everyone you wrote of and I send my light your way.
“Hello friend. I see you. Talk to me. Tell me everything.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Love and Light*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Lors, Mama here . . .
Am sending your piece onto my friends . . . not because you had mom at the piano . . . oh yes, playing for just fun, mistakes and all feels the best! But writing is another keyboard to meander, discover, to touch . . . XO Suzanne
This was just what I needed today, Laurie. Your writing- and your guidance for others, toward their own – is even more important, now. I almost said, Words fail. But they don’t. 🙏
Laurie you continue to feed our souls with your writing. May the online space open up the borders. I love and deeply appreciate your words.
Thank you again for putting yourself out here for us to read and soothe ourselves. Your imagery, insights and kindness come through at a time we all need to be touched. You are a loving light in this amazing and fraught world.
Beautiful piece Laurie, thank you for sharing of yourself through your writings. When you share I often see myself and think, Yes, that is my truth too.
Our shared humanity- the very best of who we are- offers the light needed to navigate the uncertainty of these dark times. Artists and teachers such as yourself invite us to fearlessly explore new avenues of expression.
I imagine that everyone must feel deeply disappointed that the March workshop had to be canceled. I’m so grateful to have been at the January workshop- it was a deeply rich experience for me.
Sending you my love.
xoxo
Leslie
Laurie this is beautiful, heartwarming and lovely. Love the image of your mom singing. xoxo keep writing!
This is perfect and lovely and I thank you.
Thank you darling. Much needed comfort.
Very nice, Laurie. So kind, thoughtful and community-building too.
Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.
Gracias.
Thank you so much Laurie! This post made my day! Sitting down to write as once again I’m inspired. Eager to wild write with you again! xoxo
So touching, so beautiful, and so honest. Laurie, I love the way you write and reach out.
Be well,
Elinor
Laurie, laurie laurie. loveth thou. your mom laughing. all of it. thank you. xoxo
Thank you for this. It made my heart sing and affirm what I’ve been veering towards myself.
Hello Out There – you did GOOD, cancelling the trip, all of it. I envy you your mom, true confession. Clipped to my lampshade a note titled “Big Magic” (Elizabeth Gilbert’s book). Underneath I’ve listed: RWW (Radiant Wise Women, a Facebook group I belong to, which always lifts me up, despite the fact that I’m neither wise nor radiant), 27Powers (you know what that is) and Julie, Birgit & Lucy (gel print artists I follow on YouTube.) That’s my no-fail daily recipe for Inspiration (+ looking at old Burning Man videos once in a while) ;o) Your post showed up right after I wondered what happened to the person who scratches my writing itch. Haven’t seen you in email for awhile. Hope you weren’t agonizing about Mexico but sounds like you were. Your words are precious & luminous, my favorite writing fuel.
Oh yeah, according to the illustrious Quote Investigator, a man named John Shedd published the ships-in-harbor quote in a 1928 book of sayings.
Not because she was making lite, but because she was becoming light.
And the older woman at the market staring at empty shelves and how I asked her what she was looking for and she said it wasn’t there.
Oh Laurie…just love, what else? Thank you, thank you x
Incredible. My heart is on this page in so many different words. THANK YOU FOR SHOWING UP AND SHOWING ME HOW TO!
Hello there…and thank you for this…your words….truly are a blanket of comfort for me right now…I can’t say which sentence, what word…it is just a warmth that caresses my tired brain right now…thank….you…
My favorite line heard this week: “Wash your hands like you are cooking for Ruth Bader Ginsburg.”
I love your writing and sharing, Laurie.
Thank you and please do not stop. ♥
Dearest Laurie,
I haven’t reached out in a while, but I do read what you send. I am often touched by your words. Today especially. Such authentic sharing of yourself.
I hope to be back in touch by joining a class or becoming a trainee perhaps.
Much love,
Kit
Laurie! You are an absolute gem of a writer and a writing instructor and a human being. I am also a writing instructor and I have followed your pieces and your practice from St. Louis. I hope to connect with you some day. Thank you for this gorgeous piece which is so appreciated, now more than ever. ✨