coming around again

graduation and the goodness of a dog named Gertie

hi friends,

For the past year, I've had the distinction of being a faculty member at the University of Rochester, working with eighteen senior studio art majors of enormous potential, instructing them how to write about their practice in the first and third person. The process of teaching young artists to see through the lens of text rather than image, to comprehend how their writing could be a frame in service to their visual expression, was, as you can imagine, as exasperating as it was rewarding. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Way back in September, I asked them to consider the advice of Anne Truitt as their guide: how the space of their work's development could become clearer every time they are forced to articulate it. I don't know if they took it to heart, but I do–it's on a note card above my writing desk as means of inspiration. My only task is to pick up my pen and discover what might take shape on the page.

Saturday's graduation ceremony marked the official ending. I was mindful not to ask, "What's next?" recalling how I felt years ago when I graduated from Connecticut College when somewhere between the obligatory photos on Harkness Green and the celebratory champagne at Abbott's Lobster in the Rough, I burst into tears because I had absolutely no idea. Even though an internship at Mystic Seaport Museum awaited me, I felt completely unmoored without the reassurance of returning to school in the fall.

I'm currently finding myself flooded with the same feelings. My teaching contract has ended, so I am officially out of a job. Like my students, I also graduated this Spring–completing my studies in Narrative Medicine from Columbia University. In my case, there was no formal ceremony, only the pomp of a paper envelope.

Perhaps I didn't want to ask my students, "What's next?" because I didn't want the same question turned back upon me. What's next, indeed.

In the past, this is the moment I might have come up with a story, possibly to reassure you I knew what I was doing, but primarily to comfort me. This is when I might have jumped at any suggestion dangled beneath my nose, a well-meaning, "You know what I think you should do?" or "You know, I think you'd be good at fill-in the blank." And that would be that. 

Without considering the consequences, I'd be on my way regardless of whether or not the opportunity held meaning or interest, or if I was even qualified. I felt so much relief when you saw me at all; my internal people pleaser would invariably respond, "Sure, sign me up," even when every particle of my being was screaming NO. Yes, I'll take that job. I'd be happy to be the chair of the PTA. Of course, I'll convert to Judaism. I'll be whomever you want me to be. Those were the days I found my refuge in the bottom of a glass of wine.

Graduation is most frequently understood as a step towards a specific something. An accomplishment, a degree. But I take comfort in the definition offered by alchemy, which considers graduation more of a tempering or refining. Rather than assume or force an outcome, graduation is merely the act of change, step by step.

These past few weeks have been a time of noticing change and celebration. Beginnings and endings, stops and starts. John and I marked our first year of living together, and while we're still unpacking, perpetually wondering whether this house fits us at all, we know we fit together. 

No matter what. 

It's been an enormous adjustment to be here without Olive. Despite her physical absence, I feel her presence in gratitude for all I have gained in my home and my heart. I've noticed this time as a moment marked less by mourning but instead by kindness. The cards and care received have spoken to me in ways you cannot know–thank you to all who have reached out and shared your own stories of Olive and the significance of other animals in your own distinct lives.

And, thank goodness for Gertie. 

This sweet girl has already made herself at home–did I tell you the two of us share the same birthday? Sometimes the unplanned is meant to be.

Gertie sheds. A lot. Possibly more than two Newfoundlands and a Golden Retriever combined, but ultimately, she is the most exquisite amalgam of Olive and Abby. 

This doesn't mean Gertie doesn't have her own idiosyncrasies, such as the ice maker is terrifying, as is going into the backyard from the house, preferring to enter through the latched side gate on the driveway, which is fine for now but come winter? Let's just say we're working on it.

Gertie is also not a fan of traffic, which is how I've found myself up at Cobbs Hill Reservoir, walking the .69 mile loop four times around each day. There is something about the simplicity of walking in circles; no need to ask what's next? All that is necessary is to trust the path, to notice the subtlest shifts of light upon the water and within the spaciousness of the sky. Each turn, each step, creates the opportunity to pause, to lean into the vastness and invite the experience as uniquely its own.

These circles are a form of samskaras, understood in yoga philosophy as the indelible imprints of our past encounters dictating how we travel forth and what we carry. They are the impression and the impact of how we perform our actions with the awareness of our goals. Each time a step is repeated, the belief strengthens, habits are formed. 

Sometimes our samskaras are the grooves in which we get stuck, because what's the definition of insanity? Oh, right, doing the same thing repeatedly but expecting different results. And yet, we can get unstuck. We can learn to say thank you for our past mistakes and make new meaning. Circular feedback.

Rather than assume or force a familiar outcome, we can remind ourselves of graduation, as a form of tempering. First of noticing and then of practice. Samskaras can be our invitation to create healthier habits so we may dance between, "Oh, I have been here before, but I've never seen it quite like this." 

Graduation is merely the act of change, step by step.

Soon Gertie and I will head to Monhegan and our circles will expand. Along the trails, around the island. It will be a month to pause in presence rather than pretend I know "What's next?" My only task to be to pick up my pen and work on my manuscript. To discover what might take shape on the page and then to write my way home because the shape of my work's development becomes a little clearer every time I am forced to articulate it. 

I hope yours does too.

thanks for reading ~

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some things I’ve been reading about writing

Maggie Smith’s memoir You Could Make This Place Beautiful might be the most breathtaking book I’ve read this year so far ~ I could tell you all the reasons it spoke to me, but I don't think I could do so anymore eloquently than Asha Sanaker does here in her newsletter, Let Your Life Speak. Have a read, then let’s talk about all the fucks.

Annie Ernaux puts her faith in writing as a sacred and transcendent activity.She believed in writing as some people believe in religion, as a sphere where the self, the soul, is entitled to find refuge.

Strange as it may seem, memoir isn’t about you. It’s not even the story of your life. It’s a story carved from your life, a particular series of events chosen because they have the greatest resonance for the widest range of people—Notes from Prince Harry’s Ghostwriter.

finally Casey Gerard speaks on being available for the work you were meant to do.

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When Women Were Birds: murmuration, memoir, meditation

September 22 - 26, 2023

Monhegan, ME

word by word, the language of women so often begins with a whisper… . .

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this retreat is almost full!

if you have ever wished to experience Monhegan for yourself, this retreat is your invitation. It’s an embodied book group: to journey and journal through the words of Terry Tempest Williams's poetic memoir When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice with the seasons of the sea. It is for anyone who longs to learn or return to the practices of writing and meditation, to discover our stories through silence and speech. all the details • 2022 retreat highlights here

I felt like the bright, salty sunshine and air of Monhegan scrubbed the corners of my soul, and I saw all the cracks and creases and also cleaned the gunk that needed to be moved. It was a deeply satisfying and nourishing experience. I feel like my personal bucket as a woman, mom, midwife, and human became filled to the brim with trust that we can have hard times and find meaningful ways to re-visit reintegrate into ourselves when the opportunity presents itself—Elsa, Philadelphia, PA, 2021 + 2022 retreater

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