I’d been working for so long, so many years of being ignored, unappreciated, passed over…and for what? So that I could come in on my birthday and be told I was being let go? That’s some shit. And I’d worked my ass off for that company. Literally, no ass left. They called me “Mark, no ass.” Okay, well, maybe not. But seriously, I did weekend and I did evenings and I swear to god when the boss came up and said shit like, “I’m gonna need you to come in on Saturday,” I was all over it. Sure, boss! Not a problem. That was me.
But not anymore. Fuck that shit. Cause now I’ve learned, haven’t I. It doesn’t matter how much you bleed on the capitalist corporate community, they want more. They’ll bleed you fucking dry, man. So now, now I’m the Disciplined Half-Ass. But no one calls me that to my face. I’ve made a job out of being just good enough not to get fired. Just good enough not to be noticed. Just good enough that no one needs me on evenings or weekends and no one pays attention to me when it’s time for layoffs either. I’m like the fly on the wall, but without the buzzing, cause that shit would draw attention. And that ain’t me. Not anymore.
Because here’s the thing, we all want to be loved and appreciated and told that we make a difference, that we matter. But that’s the stuff you save for your personal life, your private life. You don’t need that shit from your j-o-b and if that’s where you’re getting it you are fucked. And I mean capital F Fucked!
The world is your playground man, go have fun! Meet the people who will bring you joy and who you can bring joy to. Th
5 Minute Stretch Exercises are a creation of Laura Munson and were learned at Haven Writing Retreats. Write for five minutes, no corrections or stopping. This prompt was taken from Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert.
Did you get a copy of my Inaugural Newsletter: Sunday’s Scrips? It sent on July 7, 2023 and may have gone to your spam *boo*
Take a look here and be sure to share with anyone who might be interested.
I’m still working out the kinks, like why didn’t it show my mailing address? Why isn’t there an easy way to post it here without giving a link? It’s like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop: the world may never know. But I’m gonna do my best to find out!
He’d always considered himself a learned man, well read, going deep into topics he found interesting, a jack-of-all-trades and ignoring the master-of-none. His insight was always welcomed in the circle he travelled, for everyone in them knew he was a man who knew things, “a man of wide reading,” they’d say. And he consumed their adoration like air, like water, their adoration the thing keeping him alive. It’s not easy, however, to be a man of wide reading. It requires time, patience, and the ability to remain curious about anythin and everything. This would seem appear, but it truly is not. For how is one to be curious about something like a stubbed toe, an egg that doesn’t hatch, or a lost set of keys. And yet…. It was only as he leaned into the things he’d previously ignored, only when he picked up the medical book he’d been avoiding based solely on it’s recommendation by someone whose tastes he found basic that he discovered a stubbed toe could be interesting, could actually be so much more, could be related to spinal chord injuries, brain injuries
5 Minute Stretch Exercises are a creation of Laura Munson and were learned at Haven Writing Retreats. Write for five minutes, no corrections or stopping. This prompt was taken from The Situation and the Story by Vivian Gornick.
Huge blue door oh what a bore makes me want to snore who lives there? a big giant? I don’t care. maybe a king? Who’s really quite something? or it’s a secret To another land far away oh how Grand Huge blue door maybe I adore if i just turn the knob And believe in such lore Huge blue door You lead me to more I see the wine pour and fire roar
Stacy Hodo has lived in the mountains of San Diego most of her life. She loves being a single mom, teacher, creative dreamer, and spiritual warrior.
Despite the comfortable bed, I struggled with sleep. It was my first night in a new space and my insomnia is ever at hand. I woke repeatedly to hear the Great Horned Owl talking outside, and sometime around 3:30am I gave up and quietly turned on a light to read and write. It was finally light enough outside to go for a walk at 5am, and I quietly slipped out of the bunkhouse. I chose a walking path and let my body move, the blood flowing, the aches soothing out.
Echo Chamber Entry
I startled ducks onto the pond, and songbirds out of song. There was evidence deer had been through but I didn’t see the deer themselves. I could hear the wild turkeys but found only a feather. The rock structures were amazing and everywhere. I’d walk til I came to one that needed photographing and then I’d move on. I went to the echo chamber, modeled after one in Scotland, I’m told. It was stunning, fascinating, and it worked.
Echo Chamber Center
I stood inside on the central stone and whispered my gratitude, listening to the hundreds of me’s saying “thank you.”
Fire
By the time I hiked back my boots were soaked through. They’re the most comfortable work boots I’ve ever had and I wear them for everything, but apparently they’re water resistant, not water proof. I grabbed my notebook from my room and went over to the Lodge where smoke was coming from the chimney. I sat by the fire, took off my boots and socks to let them dry, and I wrote.
The ever amazing staff said “good morning,” let me know when coffee was ready, asked how I’d slept. I was overwhelmed by the kindness, thoughtfulness, and care. “Thank you,” I said, over and over, an echo chamber myself.
The coffee was perfect, the fire was fantastic, and I wrote and wrote and wrote, stopping when breakfast was announced. The other women slowly trickled in, all in various stages of morning, grabbing cups of coffee, grabbing plates filled with food, all of us congregating at the table. I don’t remember what we spoke about aside from the general panic when it was determined we were supposed to be in the school house in ten minutes. The rush as women took their plates to the bussing station, called their thanks into the kitchen, grabbed a bit more coffee on their way out.
Schoolhouse
Every building felt like my favorite, but the schoolhouse: with the bell-pull on the right and the bathrooms in the back, the light streaming in from all sides…I could live in it happily for all my days. There were snacks laid out and more coffee and water, but it was evident these things were here as fuel: we’d come to work. We ran exercises, learned several writing lessons, ran more exercises. When we finally broke for lunch it felt like we’d been there the entire day already, although part of this feeling could be attributed to my lack of sleep, I’m sure.
Every meal was phenomenal although I can’t recall what we ate. After lunch I put my things away because I was heading off-site to the ranch of a horse whisperer. I met Bobbi at her cute little VW Bug which whipped us through the traffic of Whitefish in no time flat. The ranch was a sea of horses, all out in three or four pastures, all out in enormous herds. We discussed how to see through the eyes of another, how to claim our energy and space, how to communicate with movement.
Horse
It was fascinating and overwhelming and I found myself having multiple epiphanies about how I exist in this world, how I show up or don’t, how my mixed signals confuse more than just myself. I met several horses and the one in the photo is the one who reminded me I don’t have to acquiesce.
Bobbi raced me back to the retreat in time to wash my hands before social hour, a mandatory event that I would have skipped if it weren’t because I needed to work on my piece for that night and because I’d much rather be an introvert. I would be reading a piece that night along with one other writer, and my piece needed to be cut in half and still make sense, still be emotionally moving. I had all of ten minutes to pull it off, and with the exception of one little hitch, something I likely would have taken out if given a bit more time and opportunity, the piece went well.
The feedback that night was phenomenal, it was all the things I wanted to get from a roomful of peers.
“You won’t fool anybody, dressed like that,” he sneered. “They’re all gonna know you’re trash.”
She considered pausing, the application of her lipstick almost complete, but didn’t. She finished out the bottom lip, pursed her lips together, grabbed a tissue and put it between her lips. A gentle press, the tissue rolled up and thrown away. She was slipping into her shoes, the ones from the thrift store that looked brand new but had cost her “only” three precious dollars.
“They all gonna know the minute you open your mouth and them bitchy little words start falling out.”
She had slipped the shoes on now, they fit her right foot perfectly but the one on the left was slightly too large. It had been a problem her whole life and she always tried to by a half-size bigger and let her right foot swim a little. But beggars can’t be choosers, or so she’d been told. She grabbed the same purse she’d been using
5 Minute Stretch Exercises are a creation of Laura Munson and were learned at Haven Writing Retreats. Write for five minutes, no corrections or stopping. This prompt was taken from Making a Literary Life by Carolyn See.
Last month I was lucky enough to attend Haven I Writing Retreat, and while I posted several pictures from the retreat on Facebook, I’ve received many requests for additional information. The pictures are stunning and certainly tell part of the story, but not all of it. These requests for more information have felt a bit invasive, even as I understand them. I, too, would be asking for more if the roles were reversed. I haven’t quite been ready to discuss it, I suppose. It was all a bit overwhelming: emotionally, mentally, and physically too. Sometimes we just need to sit with our experiences awhile, marinate in them, before we have the words to express what they were and what they meant to us. Let’s see if I’ve marinated long enough.
Before attending Haven Writing Retreat, each applicant goes through an hour long phone call with Laura Munson, the multiple New York Times Best-Selling author and leader of the Retreat. For this reason alone, I almost didn’t attend. Silly? Maybe. I have two children, four and seven, and getting them to be silent for five seconds let alone one hour is an impossible task. My anxiety over being able to hear properly over a phone even without the kids around is high as we have pockets in our home where the connection gets lost or fuzzy and those pockets aren’t the same from day-to-day. The very idea that I may be asked something I don’t properly hear or understand is mildly terrifying, and the idea that I may say something that ought to have remained a thought (a very real concern) was almost more than I could stomach. But a few months ago a writer friend had instilled in me a need to go to a retreat and I would therefore attempt walking across water if that’s what was asked of me.
My hour long phone call became nearly three hours during which I cried (a lot), the emotions surrounding putting myself out there for my writing, truly claiming my writing as mine and what I want to do with my life, a thing I thought I’d already done, was soul opening. Meeting Laura on the phone was fascinating because I hadn’t yet read her books or anything else she’d published, I had no idea who she was other than the pictures I’d seen on the Haven website. I was a bit awed by her writer status (of course! An NYT B-S Author!! *swoon*) and to find that she was also a kind and thoughtful real-live person who reminds me quite a bit of myself…it was all a bit overwhelming. By the time the call was over I needed to do three things: pee, write a Haven Scholarship Application Letter, and find patrons/donors to cover the remainder of my fees.
The ensuing weeks were a blur of tears. A lot of emotions were coming up and out over this: “saying I’m a writer and actually going to a writing retreat are two different things,” “writing a monthly article for my paper is one thing, but going to a retreat with actual writers is another,” “going to this retreat means buckling down and writing a book, am I really doing this?,” “this retreat will legitimize me to the publishing industry as well as to anyone finding my page or following my Facebook,” “I’m about to find out from real live people that aren’t my friends or family whether or not I have a chance at doing this writing thing, whether or not there’s any there there.” Could I put any more pressure and expectation on this retreat? By the time I got myself packed and said my goodbyes to my family and hit the road, I was an exhausted and excited mess.
Arch
I’m lucky to live a short two hour drive from where the Retreat is held so I had plenty of time to decompress from the role of mother and wife and enter into the role of student and writer. As I approached the Retreat, the first thing I saw was a monolith of stone, a structure both organic and obviously man-made. There are tons of these throughout the Dancing Spirit Ranch, and I would spend the next few days stumbling onto most, if not all, of them.
Bunkhouse
Parking the car I went to the office to check-in and was given a quick tour of the bunkhouse (a gorgeous structure that deserves a much more sophisticated name), my room (adorable little cubby of rest), and shown where I would need to be and when.
Cozy Room
I had about two hours before the other attendees and I would be meeting: two hours to do whatever I wanted. I went back to the car and grabbed my things: a backpack with my laptop and tons of pens and notebooks and reading books, and my duffel bag of clothes and toiletries. I dropped everything unceremoniously in my room, grabbed my journal, pen, and water bottle, and took off toward the Adirondack chairs by the pond.
Pond
No one else had arrived yet. I had acres of land to myself and so much I wanted to explore, I’d also been sitting for two hours already to get here. But I needed to write. I needed to put down for myself the story of the journey, the reveal of the Dancing Spirit Ranch, the anticipation and hope I had for what the next few days would bring. I needed to ground myself in the fact that I was actually there: this thing, attending a writing retreat, had become a reality. It was Day One of the rest of my writing life…there have been many Day One’s and I hope that never changes…but that’s another blog post.
The other writers began to arrive and I’d hear voices floating over to me or hear footsteps off to my right and look up to see someone attempting cell reception or taking photos of Glacier National Park in the distance. Beauty was everywhere you looked and the collective anticipation of the day was palpable. Everyone was here hoping to form a writing group, everyone was here hoping to find out they were on the right track. For that first night, the energy was buoying.
Lodge
We all met in the Lodge for drinks and appetizers. We’d been introduced via email but especially as I was a late addition to the cast I had no real idea who anyone was aside from names. I was nervous and excited and terrified of what might come out of my mouth. I needn’t have been.
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