Dec 9, 2011
A few weeks ago I wrote about finding a church that I loved, but Amanda rejected. We continued our quest, visiting several, and now I believe we have found the church for us.
Two friends told me that the United Church of Gainesville had excellent children’s programs. I knew they were a progressive church with a social justice orientation. They were the source of our first HOME Van donation nine years ago: in a single service they collected 189 pairs of socks, 189 jars of peanut butter, and $189. They also participate in the Interfaith Hospitality Network, in which member churches take turns providing temporary shelter, food and services to homeless families. So I thought we’d give it a try.
The people mingling outside the church were all white, but in the entrance Amanda was happy to see a girl she knew from kindergarten, and we sat with that family. The sanctuary is a beautiful space of wood and windows. People were welcoming, and the sermon was thought-provoking. The children gathered in front for a story, we sang to everyone who had a birthday that week, and then Amanda went off with the children for Sunday School.
PHOTO FROM TRADITIONALMASS.ORG
As a child I went to an Episcopalian church. To me, church is dogma and ritual and music. The only dogma I’ve found at UCG is a commitment to welcome everyone no matter who they are or what they believe. A part of me asks, So what’s the point? The congregation has created lovely rituals, but they lack the mystery, history and solemnity I loved as a child. There is beautiful music of all sorts – classical, Dixieland, bluegrass -, but the hymnal seems to consist entirely of hymns written since 1960. The lyrics are clunky progressive pieties, and give me the willies, though there are few I would disagree with.
Still, Amanda enjoyed her time with the children, and wanted to return. I found, as I always do in church, that the program of listening, speaking, silence and singing is a calming time that taps into wells of memory and grief I rarely visit.
Of all the churches we visited, Amanda liked this one the best. I had my doubts, but I went to a meeting for prospective members. We sat in a circle to say why we were there, and listened to members and ministers who told us what the church means to them.
I heard the same words over and over: community, commitment to service and social justice, spiritual seeking. I thought desperately, “I don’t want community. I’m drowning in community!” I’ve been in Gainesvillle over thirty years, and have many old friends whom I see too seldom. As for service, my hands are full with the HOME Van and school volunteering, not to mention Amanda. I don’t want any more obligations, or any more guilt. Finally, when it comes to a search for truth and meaning, I am like someone born with no sense of taste. I don’t miss it, and in fact take comfort in the thought that we are tiny specks in an unfeeling, unthinking universe.
HUBBLESITE.ORG/GALLERY/ALBUM/THE_UNIVERSE
But Amanda likes going to this church, and feels she is part of the group. We go almost every Sunday now, and bit by bit I am less of a stranger. I’ve learned a few names, and I’ve signed us up to help host dinner for the homeless families who are staying at the church. I like the thoughtful, honest sermons of the four ministers, and my prickly, judgmental voice is becoming fainter. We may have found our church.
NEXT WEEK: The No Bird
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Dec 2, 2011
I don’t understand the passion for purses, but the passion for shoes? – I get it. I used to mash my feet into spiky toes, pound my soles walking on spiky heels. Three inches was as high as you could go back then, unless you shopped in specialty costume stores. Now heels are up to five inches. I see women in these tottery-high heels everywhere, and my toes hurt. I see a young woman in platform shoes and fear for her ankles.
High heels screw up your feet, your legs, and your back. They hurt us and hobble us. Why do we wear them? Because our self-images are still shaped by fashion and media. Along with thin and young, we think sexy means that look you get in high heels – long curving calves, buttocks and breasts pushed out. Feminism has only taken us so far, and when we’re on the prowl we’re still willing to suffer to look sexy.
OUCH
I always loved shoes, and have lots of shoe-memories. As a toddler I had to wear ugly brown oxfords instead of Mary Janes. In elementary school, I wore saddle shoes, in junior high I wore loafers and flats, and then it was boarding school and back to saddle shoes again. When our dog chewed on Luli’s flats my mother had the cobbler turn them into peep toes. I was jealous; my mother wore open toed pumps and they were very fashionable.We dressed up flats and pumps with clip-on bows and brooches. I held color chips against my fuschia dance dress so the white satin pumps could be dyed to match.
When I was fourteen I took the train alone into New York City. I wore slate-gray high heels with pointy toes. It was my first time navigating the city on my own, and I strutted down Madison Avenue until my heel went into a grating and broke off. It was white plastic with a spike inside. I fitted the spike back into the hole, and limped the rest of the way to my appointment.
My first sexy boots were knee-high fake patent leather, and made my feet smell terrible. I sprinkled talcum powder inside. When I pulled them off my stockings were covered with powder and I left little white footprints on my first lover's carpet. The idea that my feet could smell? Mortifying.
I bought black patent leather sandals with spike heels and an ankle strap. That was when I first heard “fuck-me shoes,” from a lover who liked fantasy sex, but was otherwise annoying.
RUDE SHOES (KIRIAKI BY NINE WEST)
I was close to forty when comfort trumped style. After that, it was light weight hiking boots in winter, thick-soled sandals for summer and Naturalizer pumps with one- inch chunky heels in many shades for teaching or dress-up. I didn’t stop wishing I could wear snazzy shoes, but the pain was persuasive.
A couple of years after I got my new knees, my left arch collapsed. My ankle was pulled out of alignment, swelled up like a balloon, and left me limping. I tried ice, braces, arch supports, cortisone shots. The podiatrist finally gave up and sent me to a specialist, whose custom-made orthotic inserts fixed the problem. There’s only one catch – the inserts are very expensive and are made to fit one particular shoe. So I wear the same shoe style all the time, with fancy dress and jeans. Old lady shoes are acceptable anywhere. They come in black, buff, and white. Until recently I had one worn out, knockabout pair, one kept-clean pair for dress, and one buff pair for variety.
I can’t go barefoot anymore – as soon as I get up in the morning I put on my shoes. I miss my bedroom slippers in the winter, and sandals in the summer. My feet are imprisoned except when I’m sleeping. But foot freedom is a small loss. Now I can dance again, and even hike up hills.
Still, every time I go to Zappo’s, where I buy my shoes, I linger over the “women’s heels” pages. One pair promises to “capture your prey with a memorable message of seduction” They even have a brand called Promiscuous (WHAT is the world coming to!) I yearn a while, and then I order another pair of Brooks Addiction Walkers.
Then one day as I was whining to Luli about my shoes, she suggested I paint them. Immediately I googled shoe paint, found a site with instructions, and ordered about $30 worth of supplies – 8 colors, leather cleaner, and an acrylic finish. Iris and Amanda and I had a happy morning painting, and since then Amanda and I have painted my two remaining pairs.
AMANDA'S CREATIONS
PAINTING SHOES
THE FG COLLECTION
I’m amused by how my shoes cheer me up. Every time I look down and see them peeking from my pants I smile. It’s not all good. I don’t have any shoes left for somber or formal occasions, and I know if I buy another black pair, the temptation will be too great. (I’m dying for zebra stripes.) But dress codes for funerals have seemingly disappeared, and I’ll never be invited to the White House. I'm glad to have shoes that say, "I am still here.”
NEXT WEEK: An Infidel in Church: The Church Search, Part II
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Nov 25, 2011
(Of course I’ve changed the names, and a few details, to preserve the limited privacy of our homeless friends.)
The HOME Van arrives at the Downtown Plaza, our busiest stop, at 5:45 on Thursdays. A long line forms for food bags, followed by a line for soup, cornbread and hot chocolate. A smaller line waits at the front of the van for medicine. At the back people search through clothes, toiletries and books. And a few people stand in front of me where I sit near the van, sorting socks to find what suits each customer: “You want short or long, dark or white?”
HOME VAN AT HOME
HOMEVAN STUFFED WITH STUFF
Old friends, old enemies, and strangers stand in line together, loud or quiet, lively or withdrawn, all hungry, most homeless. Hugs, greetings, insults, jokes, gossip – who’s in jail, who’s in the hospital, what happened at the church dinner the night before.
Sometimes there are angry complaints – “How come you never have batteries?” but more often gracious, generous words – “You are a blessing,” “No, give it to Mr. Watson, he needs it more than me.” (Mr Watson is over 80.) There are more men than women, more black than white, more middle-aged or old than young.
Times are always tough at the bottom; you might think a poor economy wouldn’t make any difference. But work has long since dried up at the labor pools. Shelves at the food banks empty quickly every week, and at every agency demand is up and donations down. There are more homeless people now. The annual count in Gainesville used to find about 800 people; now there are 1500.
We never used to see children at the HOME Van, but now we often do. Recently Laquita has been a regular customer. She has a toddler in a stroller, and 6-year-old Shontelle. Laquita waits patiently in line for food bags for the three of them, each bag with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a hard-boiled egg, an orange, a granola bar, and a bottle of water.
Shontelle stands by her brother. Her hair is neatly braided in rows and plaits, and she wears the same public school uniform as Amanda – a polo shirt and pants. She watches our motley crew of customers with lively eyes. Little Franco, bleary-eyed, leaps into the lap of a fat woman in a wheelchair. Her thin cotton dress falls alarmingly low off her shoulders. Joseph and Isaiah argue over a place in line, their expletives rising louder and ruder and then subsiding into muttered insults. Michelle wears all her clothes at once – pants, skirts, shirts, sweaters, her head wrapped in shawls.
Arupa and I try to have a special gift for the children who show up – a stuffed animal, a book, a notebook and pretty pen. I ask Laquita, “Do you think the kids would like this teddy bear? She smiles and calls Shontelle over. Without prompting, Shontelle thanks me and takes the teddy bear to her brother, makes it dance and talk for him.
GIFTS FOR THE KIDS
More than the children, it’s the parents I ache for. Living in a car, a church, a homeless shelter, they struggle to give their children a normal life. They are ashamed that they cannot provide, humiliated at taking the kids to a soup line. But the worst is the fear that protective services will take the children away.
Last year I took Amanda to the HOME Van Christmas drive-out, when we give out the Christmas stockings stuffed by people all over town. They are white tube socks stuffed with candy, perfume, batteries, flashlights, toys, all sorts of treats that say “People are thinking of you, people care that you are living in the woods.” With her best company manners Amanda handed out socks and candy canes, and helped eat the cookies.
HOME VAN CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS
A few weeks ago Amanda and I hosted dinner for the families who were staying at our church. Hosting is easy. With another volunteer we put out the food, eat dinner with the guests, and clean up afterwards. This time there were three families, including four young children and two older boys.
After dinner Amanda went out to the playground with the children, but Darnel, the oldest boy, stayed behind to talk with me and the other volunteer. He was a comical delight – full of 14-year-old braggadocio and wiseacre remarks. His uncle had moved with him and his younger brother from Detroit in August. They had spent the previous week in a motel, and would move the next week to another church. Darnel was enrolled in the prize-winning performing arts program at one of our magnet schools. He said school was too hard. “At least you’re not bored,” I said. “Yeah, but I can’t sleep in class, so I’m tired all the time. They should let you sleep if you want to.”
We discussed rules that we think are unfair, and I offered rules against peeing in public. Darnell thinks those are good rules. “What can you do if you don’t have a home? You still have to pee.” “Yeah, but how would you like it if you were walking down the street and some guy had whipped it out and was peeing?” “I’d walk behind him.” “Yeah, but what if he turns around suddenly and it goes all over your leg?” “I’d wash it off.”
Amanda played with the other kids until well past dark. The littlest girl admired her earrings and when Amanda told her she had a matching bracelet at home, she said, “I wish I had a home.” Amanda said, “It’s hard not to have a home. I wish I could help you.”
I had to stay till 8:30 when the overnight volunteers take over. Joe came at 7:30 to take Amanda home for bedtime in her very pink bedroom – a hot shower, fleece pajamas, a chapter from the bedtime story, and lights out.
AMANDA'S ROOM IS JUST AS PINK – PHOTO FROM DIGSDIGS.COM
Today is the day after Thanksgiving. If you are homeless, you may have eaten three Thanksgiving meals yesterday – everybody serves free dinners at Thanksgiving and Christmas. If you are housed, you probably have a refrigerator full of leftovers.
TURKEY DINNER BY NOMADCHEF.COM AT IMAGES.GOOGLE.COM
You may feel you have been as thankful as you need to be. But take time today to be grateful for one more thing. If you are homeless, be thankful if you have no children. If you have children, be thankful if you have a home.
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NEXT WEEK: I Got Shoes
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Nov 17, 2011
I was looking for a church for Amanda and me. I am not a believer, but she attended church sporadically before she came to live with us, and her belief in God and Jesus are important to her.
FROM "A CHILD IS BORN" BY MARGARET WISE BROWN. ILLUSTRATIONS BY FLOYD COOPER
click
Amanda has been self-conscious about her white grandparents, and undoubtedly will be again. I wanted a church where we could both be comfortable, where a white grandma was accepted. More important, I wanted a church where Amanda would hear more about love and forgiveness, about doing good works and rejoicing in God’s creation, than about possession by demons and the fires of hell.
It was a puzzle. Where could I find a church for both of us – black Christian child and white atheist woman? I heard of two “integrated” churches, and went on their websites. They were big evangelical churches, and their photo albums didn’t look very integrated to me – a smattering of black faces among thousands of white. And their missions and messages disturbed me, insisting that Jesus is the one and only Way. Maybe searching for a Christian church that doesn’t focus on Christianity is unrealistic, but it can’t be good for Amanda to think Grandma and Grandpa are headed for hell. We ended by visiting four different churches.
Twenty years ago I took my foster children to a black United Methodist church. I really like the minister there, who told me, “God doesn’t see color.” The Methodists seem to accept that there may be various paths to truth, and they sing a lot of the hymns I grew up with. So on Palm Sunday, Amanda and I dressed up and headed to church.
Amanda chose a pew in the middle. At first she sat stiffly, two feet away from me, looking a little worried. But as the familiar sights and sounds sank in – the praise choir clapping and singing, people waving their hands, swaying – she began to relax.
PITTSBURGH GOSPEL CHOIR from IMAGES.GOOGLE.COM
I sang enthusiastically. At home I sing constantly, and it often aggravates Joe and Amanda. He says, “Please stop singing,” and she simply says, “Grandma.” But in church she didn’t object, and soon she was singing too.
The minister welcomed all the visitors, saying, “You are in the right place, you are where you belong.” She looked right at us.
It was a special day. They were baptizing a baby, maybe a year old. She had a great mop of soft black hair, and creamy tan skin. Her black father and white mother were surrounded by family in all shades. They passed the baby to the minister, and when the water touched her face, she cried. Amanda watched closely.
The minister introduced Michelle Duster, a descendant of Ida B. Wells. She told us that while she was proud of her great grandmother, the anti-lynching crusader, all our ancestors were strong. They were fighters and survivors. They survived the Middle Passage, slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow. And none of them did it alone.
IDA B. WELLS
click
As far as I know, these were not my ancestors, but in this church Amanda would learn the values and history I hope she will cherish. In this church I heard the messages that matter to me – messages about service, community, justice. Church is for believers and seekers, and I am a comfortable atheist. But gospel music makes my soul sing, and I love to be in a place where people are rejoicing and trying to be good. Here Amanda could find community and strength, and this is the church I would choose.
Unfortunately, our next visit was a disaster. The minister called all the children up to the front, and Amanda of course went too. But they had been rehearsing a reading, and the group leader sent Amanda back because she didn’t have a role in it. She was mortified, and NEVER wants to go back. I had to resume my search.
NEXT WEEK: One More Day for Thanksgiving
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Nov 10, 2011
Every fall the Muumuu Mamas, nine middle-aged women, go to the beach for a weekend. The others have demanding jobs, with too many needy people, students, committees, travel. I am the only one who has retired, but I have Amanda. The beach weekend is our escape, and we look forward to it all year.
Planning begins in the spring, when someone sends an email: is it time to begin looking for a house? At least six weeks before the trip someone sends out a sign-up sheet for meals, and food porn fills our in-boxes..
Over the years we have gone from house to house, seeking perfection. Michelle, the most fastidious of us, sets the standard. The consensus: we want a house that is nicer than our own. (For some of us that would not be hard to find.) I am happy in shabby, and have a fondness for shacks, but I can wallow in luxury with the best of them.
For two years we rented a house that belonged to friends of Michelle, but she was active in gay rights in Florida, the friends grew more conservative, and that became uncomfortable. Then I found a beautiful house at the part of St Augustine Beach where driving is forbidden. When we arrived it had just been sprayed for bugs. Ceal couldn’t stand the smell, and earthworms were committing suicide in the swimming pool. The next year we rented the house next door, but the balcony had no shade.
This year we think we have finally found a permanent home. It’s on the ocean, two stories, with five bedrooms and five baths, two living rooms, a deck upstairs and patio downstairs, a swimming pool, and a long boardwalk over the dunes to the water. Its name: Peace of Paradise.
EARLY MORNING AT PEACE OF PARADISE
Peggy, who arranged the rental, goes over early Friday to open the house; the rest of us drive to the beach in twos and threes. When Iris and I arrive, we find Marcie, Michelle and Peggy already there.
Peggy challenges us to find the ugliest thing in the house. She gives us hints: it is downstairs, and has been put away. After a brief search, Iris comes back upstairs, waving her trophy. A flamingo tchotchke, neck curving down, its rump a burst of pink feathers, standing in front of lurid green leaves. It is one of a pair of bookends, and I long to steal them for the shelf in my office.
Apart from the bird, the decor is inoffensive, standard beach themes with not too many shell-encrusted items. The swinging gate from the beach to the boardwalk has a mosaic peace sign. Iris decides that the ceiling fan in the living room, huge blades shaped like palm fronds, is the only feature that is unacceptable. If she weren’t so short, it might cut off her head, and anyway, it is clunky-looking.
The Mamas give me a downstairs bedroom all to myself with a huge jacuzzi tub in my private bathroom and the pool right outside my door. They say it’s because I go to bed and get up so early, and they want me away from the main part of the house. But they spoil me, I think, because they are through with child-rearing and I have Amanda.
Many of us are cooks, all of us are gluttons, and the food is endless and varied. Among other treats this year we have the best cioppino I have ever eaten, black rice salad, warm red cabbage slaw, pasta with walnut pesto, a pear and apple cake, jelly tots. Plates of cheese, vegetables and hummus, and bowls of nuts are laid out on the counter, and there is always an open bottle of wine. I make black beans and rice for Friday dinner, Julie makes Caesar salad. I was planning cornbread, but all of us thought somebody else was bringing eggs and milk.
Saturday morning I finish writing about 7:30, and decide to jump in the freezing pool. A physical therapist once told me that ice is my friend, but I admit I was also showing off. I strip and step outside. Think a minute. Go back inside and fill the hot tub, sink until my breasts are bobbing, and turn on the jets. When I am hot to the core I pad out to the pool, walk to the edge and jump. If I hesitated I wouldn’t do it, and in mid-air I have a moment of exhilaration, thinking, “Can’t turn back now!” I tread water for about fifteen minutes, every aching joint and bone crying hallelujah. When I’m cold to the core I return to the tub.
I smell bacon upstairs, and I’m tempted. But once I go up and connect, it will be hard to tear myself away, and I am so happy to be alone, pampered, free. I contemplate a nap. I write a little more, and then a smoke alarm goes off, piercing even way down here. I’m ready.
Iris always brings her griddle and makes pancakes, but with no eggs or milk we graze – coffee, yoghurt, cheese, fruit, bread, sweet potatoes, bacon – there are plenty of choices.
After breakfast Marcie, Iris and I go to the store. While they are at Publix, I go to the Dollar Tree for a coming-home gift for Amanda, and find bags of rubber snakes, perfect for her Halloween Medusa costume. We head up A1A to the fish store, and while Marcie buys the fish for dinner, Iris and I go to the fancy thrift store down the street. I find a nice purse for Amanda’s birthday for $9.50. I plan to fill it with little gifts, individually wrapped. I am a little concerned about heavy metal rings on either side, which could make it a handy weapon, but I decide we have outgrown that concern.
If our weekend has a theme it is, “No one does anything she doesn’t want to do.” People walk on the beach, read, write, swim in the ocean or the pool. A 1500-piece jigsaw puzzle attracts several of us, but by Saturday night it's abandoned as too hard. Iris and Michelle have brought their extensive beading supplies, and they and Julie spend some time making necklaces.
There is always someone cooking, someone eating, someone tidying the kitchen. We turn on the music and dance. We talk and talk, and sit in comfortable silence. We take naps whenever we want.
At dinner and afterwards we are all together, talking about our lives, telling stories. This year Julie has a variation on Dictionary. One person reads the description on the back of a romance novel, and then all the others write first paragraphs for the book. The leader reads all the paragraphs, and we guess the real one.
Marcie’s daughter Naorah named us the Muumuu Mamas when she visited at 10am on our first beach weekend and found us all lounging in our muumuus drinking wine. We get together as often as we can, for dinner, canoeing, or celebrations. We’ve made Christmas cookies, and Christmas stockings for the HOME Van. When I had knee surgery, Joe spent the night with me at the hospital and the Muumuus took daytime shifts, so I was never alone. The nurses thought we were a church group.
One husband thinks we go to the beach to get away from our husbands. Marcie says, “No, it’s because we want to be together.” (One of us who shall be nameless says, “The other is just a fringe benefit.”)
The beach weekend is our gift to ourselves and to each other. It is a celebration of our friendship. I don't know how I would manage without the Muumuu Mamas.
DAWN
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NEXT WEEK: The Church Search: An Infidel in Church, Part I
Nov 3, 2011
In October I went to Jane’s Stories annual Writers’ Retreat. It was my second time at a writers’ conference. At the first, three years ago, I met Sandra, who told me that her goal is to find one new writer friend at each workshop she attends. It was Sandra who encouraged me to go to the Jane’s Stories retreat. click
I needed no urging. Like most loving mothers, I welcome any chance to re-enter the adult world. And this time, unlike the last, I felt I had something to offer. If a writer is anyone who writes regularly, and an author is a writer who has been published, a blogger is somewhere in between. I’m proud of my blog, and had just acquired beautiful cards to identify myself.
Just before my first conference, Amanda came to live with us for the second time, and I wondered whether I should go. Leaving Joe on his own for three days with an unhappy and confused little girl was troubling. But the conference was here in Gainesville, so I would be home every night, and Joe urged me to go. This time it happened that once again Amanda was going through a rough patch, and once again I considered cancelling. But Joe is an old hand, and it was just 24 hours. So I headed off to St. Augustine early Saturday morning, enjoying the solitary two-hour drive into dawn.
MATANZAS BAY – images.google.com from city-data.com
The retreat was at a restaurant, in a room overlooking Matanzas Bay. It included a two hour workshop on memoir by Karen Sayler McElmurray, author of two novels and her own memoir, Surrendered Child. Sandra Lambert and Anne Martin Fletcher described their successful quests for an agent, and gave pointers. Georgia Banks Martin spoke on fairy tales and poetry. We had the opportunity to have a manuscript or query letter critiqued. I brought a query letter for my third novel and Anne wrote useful scribbles all over it. click click click click
Attendance was small, which surely disappointed the hard-working, all-volunteer Jane’s Stories board. But it produced a most wonderful workshop, in which everyone felt free to participate, and had valuable things to say.
This was all interesting and helpful. But for me the most important part was being with people who are writers, who know what writing involves, and think it is worthwhile work. For each of us it is different – we are more or less fluent or blocked, frightened or brave. Most of us have been all of these.
These women have experienced writing as I have. Mucking around in my mind to dig up thoughts and catch them as they fly out. Beginning with a plan or throwing scraps at the screen to see what happens. Returning the next morning to find words dead on the page, or a sentence that sings. Tidying up the mess – one of my favorite parts, as I am a decisive editor. Exulting when, after many revisions, a draft feels final. (It never is.)
They have also experienced the grim and tedious business of trying to get published. I have submitted for years with no success, though once I had an agent, and two editors have been effusive about my writing as they rejected it.
“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money,” said Samuel Johnson. In truth, only a fool writes for money. The odds of making money by writing are probably smaller than the odds of a high school athlete making it in the pros. If it’s money you’re after, play the stock market; if it’s fame, try serial killing.
NO BLOCKHEAD HE? – Dr Samuel Johnson, after Joshua Reynolds Photo: THE GALLERY COLLECTION/CORBIS
I had dinner with Sandra, who is herself beginning to experience success, with publication in two prestigious literary journals. Her generosity is an inspiration. On her blog, full of beautiful photos and paeans to Florida nature, she tirelessly promotes the work of others, new authors and old. She doesn’t waste energy on carping and belittling. Unless she is critiquing, she saves her breath for praise.
Sandra’s attitude was an example and a gentle rebuke to me. In the intensity of my long wish to be published, to be heard, I had become selfish and envious. I clung to a distinction between real writers and dabblers. As though it were a race, I looked around to see who was ahead of me. But writing isn’t a competition, though the world would make it one. There is room for all the flowers in the garden.
POPPY GARDEN – by Slatesculpt at flickr.com/photos/57031315@N02/page3/
After dinner we went to Anastasia Books, where five women read from their work: memoir, poetry, essay, fiction. I bought a book of poems by one, and a memoir by another. Some of the writers have had more success than others; all were well worth listening to. To hear them was to remember that we each have unique vision, and can speak with a unique voice. I intend to go to workshops when I can, and be inspired, not threatened, by other writers’ gifts.
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NEXT WEEK: The Muumuu Mamas Go to the Beach
