Well, hello!
Yes, I am the most inconsistent blogger ever. Can I blame it on busy motherhood? I don’t really feel like I can, because I
know there are MUCH busier moms than me out there.
The truth is, I am actually writing a lot. Because I am taking a writing class! I am so excited about this. You may remember from my first post that I
once signed up for a writing class and bailed after the first day because I was
too embarrassed to read my writing out loud (and if I am honest, I also thought
the teacher was a nasty cow).
So how did I come across this glorious class, and in
Newmarket no less? (the place I used to refer to as the Culture Free
Zone). Well, I really started paying
attention to my community paper. Since I
have been off work, I’ve been getting way too excited for the twice-weekly
delivery of the Newmarket Era, (which on
Thursdays is stuffed with oodles of flyers and coupons – my latest embarrassing
motherhood obsession – but that is another story). In one
of the Thursday papers I came across the “Newmarket Fall Activity Guide” which
is a big booklet full of courses, classes, programs and cultural events for
kids and families – and as I discovered, for just adults too! I scanned the courses, thinking there was no
way I was going to find anything interesting.
But wait, what is this? A
photography course? Cool! Cooking classes? Why not!
And could it be….a writing course?!
Surely it must be lame…but it’s every Wednesday from 7-9. The timing is perfect! Sloan’s in bed, happily full and asleep. I was intrigued. So I signed up.
I really didn’t know what to expect, but within 5 minutes of
the first class, I knew I made a good decision.
The group of people was so eclectic and interesting. A construction worker. A painfully shy teenager. An elderly grandmother type with the softest,
most delicate voice I’ve ever heard. A self-professed
“hockey mom”. A physically challenged
fantasy and comic book fanatic. A
singer-songwriter. An Indian woman
obsessed with poetry. A mysterious woman
whose kindness I can sense, but who also seems to carry pain in her heart. And me, a new mom who has felt completely out
of touch with her cultural side since moving away from the big city (which was
five years ago).
Our “teacher” is kind, thoughtful and created such a safe,
warm environment that we all seemed to feel comfortable to not only write
galore during class, but share a particular piece towards the end of the two
hours. The format goes like this: we
begin with a light meditation, to clear our mind and prepare ourselves to write. We are then given a “prompt” and write for
10-15 minutes per prompt. For example,
one prompt was “I remember when…”. And then
you just go for it. Then, after about an
hour and a half of this (and a number of pieces in our notebooks), we go around
the room and share a piece that we’ve written.
The rest of the class then comments on the piece – what stuck out to them,
what really touched them, etc. The rules
are: everything is assumed to be fiction (so people don’t have to feel like
they are spilling their guts), and only positive comments allowed. It’s wonderful! Such interesting pieces! Such
creative writing! And such positive
feedback!
I’ve never written so much in one sitting, and so many
different things! Each class we focus on
a different aspect of writing, such as dialogue or description. I truly feel like it’s making me a better
writer. And I absolutely love it. It’s also been emotional at times. My writing, as you know, is very personal,
and some of the prompts bring out pieces that have literally brought me to
tears (and allowed me to really write for something other than this blog –
because as much as I spill here, there’s a lot more inside me that I could
never really share publicly).
One piece that has stuck out to me was from the prompt, “My Mother’s
Hands”. When I read this aloud my voice
cracked in places, and when I was done I noticed a couple of the women in class
had tears in their eyes. I think it
really touched on their relationship with their own mother, or lack
thereof. I know I am lucky to have the
mother I have (what a reminder!), and I would like to share the piece with you
now.
My mother’s
hands.
So soft and
so strong.
Even as a
child I felt the strength in her, coming through her hands. She would stroke my face and head in a way
that made me feel like her love and calm was washing over me. In theory, it was awkward – she would cover
the side of my nose, forehead and chin, and with her whole hand sweep back,
over my cheek and across my ear, coming right back to the exact spot where she
started and stroke again, with the consistent repetition of someone petting a
cat resting on their lap.
I craved
that touch and she gave it in abundance.
She would often sing softly, or just hum, and it always made me feel so loved.
She always
said I couldn’t possibly know how much she loved me and my brothers and sister;
that only when I had a child of my own would I begin to get it. I never took
those words in. How could I? You don’t get what you don’t get. But now I know what she meant.
I now do
the same stroke with my own daughter, an instinct that came to me the moment
she was placed on my chest. My hand went
to that place on her face, and swept back with a gentle firmness that instantly
took me back to my childhood, and I swear I remembered being a baby in that
moment.
My mother’s
hands have taught me many things: hard work, generosity, but mostly, they
taught me love.
Thanks for reading, friends.
Xo Holly
No comments:
Post a Comment