Today, I’m thinking about simple moments. Earlier, I was sitting out by the pool at our hotel, my first time doing that. I was alone for about 20 minutes and it was delightful. I was enjoying the gentle breeze, sitting in the shade on this lovely sunny morning. I was enjoying just being in the world.
A woman came out to the pool, smiled at me and chose a lounge a bit away to sunbathe. I was sitting at a table with an umbrella. Shortly after, six young women, I would say about 15 years old, tumbled through the door laughing and talking. They immediately dumped their towels and coverups on a lounge and jumped in the pool still laughing and talking. I don’t know if they were siblings, close friends, or a combination of both. I do know that they were very close and very engaged with one another.
I sat there and just appreciated their joy. Then they started playing the most hilarious game. They broke into two groups. One group was mermaids, and the other group was sirens. A girl in the mermaid group started singing. A girl from the siren group told her she was not allowed to sing that song – she was a mermaid, and that was a siren song. Sailors could crash on the rocks if she sang that song near them. The girl replied “my mother sang this song as a lullaby to me as a child. I can sing this song.” And she resumed singing.
Not only did I find their play, their imaginations, and their creativity delightful, I found that statement, that claiming of voice, that claiming of song incredibly powerful.
There are so many lessons in the simple moments, the importance of camaraderie and connection, the importance of communication and joy, the importance of play. The most powerful message I took with me, though, was the message that we need to claim the right to sing our own songs unapologetically and with gusto. I hope you sing your song today.
I sit next to a lovely window on the last day of my writing retreat pondering the snow blowing sideways as the wind carries it drifting across the yard. Someone in the other side of the house where I’m staying strums a guitar slowly. It’s lovely. There were children in that side of the house this morning, running up and down stairs, laughing at times, voices serious at times. There was music, “Hello darkness, my old friend; I’ve come to talk with you again,” mellow and folksy, soothing. There were the sounds of cooking and a family, not a biological family, I don’t think, but a community of selected family sharing breakfast before they took off to do chores on the farm in the falling snow. I sat in my dining room, just on the far side of the shared kitchen door enjoying my solitude and also enjoying the sounds of their community. These disparate moments, their community, my solitude led me to reflect on the importance of connection and aloneness. Not loneliness, but the need I sometimes feel to be alone, to feel my own rhythms, to do things in my own time, not influenced by the rhythms and time of others. Their time together seemed so effortless, so comfortable. My seclusion felt the same.
I learned during my 3-month writing retreat in Florence, Italy, that my creativity is best fed with time away from not only those I love, but basically everyone. I did make two wonderful friends during that time, Emma, a sculptor, and Iris, a barista at the coffee shop I frequented, but our friendships were mostly bounded by Emma’s shop and Iris’s restaurant. When working on my time, my days developed a cadence, a pattern that they rarely have at home in my “normal” life. I rose whenever I awoke, usually around 8 am when construction started on the apartment building across the way. I drew for a while, journaled for a while, walked to a new area of the city, shopped for lunch, returned home, worked on projects until I was ready for dinner and then cooked for myself or chose a restaurant nearby. My evenings were free-form. I strolled the city looking for street art or listened to buskers. I took cooking, pasta making, or wine tasting classes. I often bought a gelato or a cappuccino (or both) before walking back home to read for a while before sleep. Sometimes I went to museums or art exhibits. Sometimes I took short trips outside the city on truffle hunting expeditions or olive oil and cheese tastings. But mostly, I spent my days strolling Florence and soaking in the inspiration it so freely provided. I discovered a taste for Negroni and aperitivo (gin and olives, two things I’d never had a taste for).
And I wrote. Thirty blog posts in three months. I outlined two books and drafted chapters for each. It was one of the most personally and professionally productive times of my life. Professional productivity is usually something else for me. I never have trouble meeting deadlines for academic presentations, journal articles, or book chapters, although my model typically involves finishing everything in the 11th hour. I’m not a procrastinator, per se, I just process for a long time, then write under pressure. My personal writing is different. Something, like the snow outside, triggers a memory, a thought, an idea, and I write.
Writing, for me, is part of this, but not the whole picture. I live life fully, with activity, passion, engagement, and energy. Often those things are driven by other people and events, often to a beat not my own. I work at the tempo demanded in the moment. I adapt. On writing retreats, I nurture my own pace. I find my own rhythm.
I guess my message is this. We all need connection and aloneness, time to engage outwardly and time to reflect inwardly, and time to create. On this snowy afternoon, I am content to sit by this window, let these words flow from my fingers, and simply be in the moment. Tomorrow I return to the rhythm of my family, of the reality of four people coordinating their lives together. I will miss this solitude. I will return gratefully to the hustle and bustle of my day-to-day life, until the pull for solitude draws me on to my next writing retreat.
Deborah's Deliberations 