Since We’re Still Here

I belong to a couple of unintentional support groups– one is a book club; the other is a sort of informal writing group. The writing group is really just myself and two of my sisters (so far)– we regularly meet to bounce ideas around and to encourage and challenge each other (and ourselves) in creative endeavors. Recently, we talked at length about Walt Whitman, scarf strategies, poetic rhythm, and what it means to be blessed (and, by the way, not in Disneyland). I’m not making this up. This sort of conversation keeps me sane… everyone should have sisters like this who will come close, as well as wander far and mine deep with you. Sisters who naturally draw out laughter and new perspective (and perhaps even tears– the good, cleansing bubbles kind).

Collaborative “support” gatherings, for me are all about opportunity, interest, and commitment… not exclusivity. I have five sisters, two brothers living— all born of the same two lovely parents, and many other fair folk who are siblings in spirit. Any opportunity for collaborating is such a gift.

These meetings were initially Mara Lee’s idea, and since we’re all still here, and have been in each other’s company since Mara Lee was born and Leah and I were toddlers (basically, a tribe), we three agreed. We tend to be commitment averse– we knew this would be good for us. Good idea. Yes, yes.

We’ve matured past smuggling-kittens-under-our-shirts-into-the-house ideas (that was Leah’s, forty nine years ago), and toilet-papering-the-hood-after-midnight ideas (no one will claim responsibility for those long-ago misadventures), but still, there’s something magnetic, even compelling (not to mention delightful) in a sister’s let’s-do-this-together notion– even in our 50’s. So, we gather (via Zoom) to hold one another accountable to our gifts and dreams: words, art, desire for healing (every good thing). To enable and encourage one another to create. (One could argue that we gather to stave off the despair and desperation inherent to undeveloped talents, unmet goals… but today I’m choosing the higher, brighter road: we gather in belief– belief in goodness, love, inspiration, becoming.)

Last week when we met, Mara Lee’s little spaniel kept vying for her attention; Leah and I saw him in delightful, random snippets, an eager ear-flopping fluff cloud of black and white and nibbles, leaping into and out of the screen, sometimes looking right into the camera, now tugging on her sweater, now digging for treasure in the couch next to her– I mention this because it’s a good metaphor for the rhythm and randomness of our discussions, and for each of our creative attempts.

Here’s the thing: Aside from captivating conversation when we Zoom-gather, we are ready with pens and notebooks. One of us shares a random prompt, Leah sets a timer (I can never reach mine quickly enough), and we three free-write to the prompt (or about it, or as quickly away from it as we can move) for seven minutes, silently, together. Writing exactly what comes to mind, with no erasing, no time to edit. Writing together, but in separate places: Northwest, Intermountain West, Deep South.

And writing only as silently as pen/pencil scratching allows– which scratchy noise does elevate Leah’s anxiety a bit; she worries that her pencil scratching isn’t fast enough, that she’s falling behind. Another metaphor (I think she has started turning her sound off during the seven minutes). And those minutes… seven being the magical, perfect number that it is… let me tell you that for all of Seven’s Biblical and fairy tale proportions, those minutes are still way too short.

Then we read what we’ve written to each other, and wonder out loud– investigate, comment. This takes way longer than seven minutes, an exercise that carries all the benefits of the best writer’s group/book club, and exposure therapy. Either way… we have to get over ourselves.

Also sometimes this works a bit like ink-blot psychoanalysis. One instinctively takes a gentle feminist swing with the prompt “Pretty Please”. Another discovers the tyranny and necessities of fences in “Not A Single Idea”. One dons a frothy skirt in “Swish”. Our written (and spoken) thoughts are roads that diverge, converge– they surprise us with their revelations; they bookmark (and engender) outbursts of hilarity, insight, vulnerability, grief. They beg analysis: what does this mean?

Why am I describing our middle-aged stream-of-consciousness day camp adventures?  I think because if it were a gift I could throw from a float in a parade, I would.  Here I am, and there you are, anonymous reader… I feel compelled to tell you that gathering with loved ones, and talking– and writing– heals my soul. 

What sort of gathering, conversing, and recording might heal yours?  

My website analytics tell me that Every Day Bloom still gets visited occasionally, even though there’s been a lapse– over a couple years now– in new material to read or look at.  I don’t know exactly who comes here; I’ve heard over the years from a cousin or two, a sibling or two, a dear friend or another… that Every Day Bloom is visited, read, even appreciated.  Thank you, beloveds and friends.  You are all people whose minds, hearts, and fates I value, so… if these few are all that ever visit, it is better than good enough for me.  

Frank asks me once or twice a year if I intend to keep Every Day Bloom going.  Hosting and web space aren’t free services, after all, and he’s aware that I haven’t published for awhile.  We decided together, weeks ago, yes.  We’re keeping it; I’m committed to writing/creating new pieces, posting them regularly again.  This will fulfill a deep, aching yearning in me: love letters written to the world and sent out into the wide blue yonder. 

I’ve wrestled with some chagrin over how Every Day Bloom started out more or less as a lifestyle blog (for lack of a better term)… that there’s pieces on sewing peplum blouses and aprons and making green smoothies and even joining a blog party… but I’m thinking now that this is ok– even better than ok.  Every Day Bloom’s origins aren’t just something I can live with, partially obscured in the past; they are good.  They are worth sharing.

Because Every Day Bloom documents a journey– an ongoing journey that is still clumsy, but consistent in its yearnings and little moments of wonder.  Who doesn’t benefit from tracing the highs and lows– the conundrums, embarrassments, triumphs, even tragedies of a journey?  Monarchs and ladybugs, Lewis and Clark, Bilbo & Co., Captains Robert Scott and Kirk, Ruth and Naomi, Charlotte and Wilbur.  My documentary doesn’t pretend to expertise or grandeur.  Rather, it highlights– or at any rate plays with– failures and successes; it laughs at ironies; it watches, hopeful, for any glimmer of grace.  As this random sewing/gardening/art/living narrative has evolved, and lapsed, and re-surfaced, it seems to me that it is, as a tribute to the convergence of art, homemaking, and community, what the Lewis and Clark expedition was to… well, medicine, for instance, and sociology, not to forget geography.  (On a much smaller scale, of course). A small but still complex heritage– faulty, fraught, fascinating.  

For instance: we learn from the transcontinental explorers’ journals, and by literally following their trail and investigating bits of soil at their long-ago campsites across the wide continent, that taking mercury for digestive complaints is a very bad idea.