Online Writing Groups (Not Critiquing, Just Writing) Are Cool

 

I am really appreciating the newly-discovered-by-me online writing groups that are apparently going for many hours, every night and day. After centuries of working alone at home I now get to work alone at home knowing there are these four or fourteen folk working away at their own tables, just there in the left half of my computer screen.

Mostly we are silent, and some turn off their video while working, but there are a lot of pluses to having them there.

1) I know the window in which this event is happening, and if I don't get cracking, I'll miss the boat.

2) Having living beings right there silently working calms me, somehow. I do get a bit anxious about settling down to write or plan, so that calming effect is very welcome.

3) At certain points there is brief checking in. This goes against the sense of isolation that can be there in the background, generally not anywhere I notice it. Having it contradicted by the check-ins has brought a sense of relief and camaraderie, so clearly the isolation is there, even if undetected.

3a) In some groups this begins with a query in the chat: "What are you working on today, Mael?" This helps me focus on a single, clear task instead of allowing myself to wander off into side-shoots. Focussing better makes me feel more secure in my efforts, and more satisfied with what I have done that day.

3b) There is generally a check-in at the end, or in the longer meetings, a couple of hours in. "How did it go for you?" That question makes the process more conscious, and therefore easier to consider. How did it go? Is there something I ought to have done to make it go better? (Like eat first.) Or was it just fine? In which case, hurrah!

3c) As faces become familiar, as I learn a little of what people are working on, how it's going for them, their aims and their worries, how they support and encourage each other and me, I begin to feel affection for them, and a sense that I want them to be happy with their work. In other words, even though we talk very little, a sense of community begins to emerge.

4) They end. Just as the beginning of the meeting prompts me to stop whatever I'm doing and get to work, the end says, "You're done! Go have fun." As someone who tends to work till I drop, this is a great thing to begin playing with. You mean, stop before it's finished? Assume I can return the next time and pick it up? Wow.

I just committed to the next two meetings I plan to attend, getting on the roster and writing them down in my calendar. (Yeah. Paper. Weird.) I looked at what was already scheduled for those days and thought, "Yeah, I'd like to put an hour of writing in there." Remembering how blissful it was last time to break after an hour for my (online) yoga class, as I will again this week, and come back to writing renewed and invigorated. Instead of that unscheduled hour trickling by as they are wont to do, I know I will get a contained dollop of work done. And I felt -- excited! What a wonderful way to feel about work that I love but tend to get anxious about. How perfect is that?

If you are interested in trying out a writing group like this, the one below is one of the groups available. It may be the largest, with many hosts across the world with their own meetings and formats. You can meet online, as I do, but they also have live events where folk gather in a coffee shop or some such thing. It's called Shut Up and Write:

https://www.meetup.com/pro/shut-up-write/

 

Image: Free clipart from clipground.com.

Molluscs

 

I have a sad story and a happy story and they both involve molluscs.

Last night, a few hours after I got home from Emergency with my broken toe, I had the screen door open because one of the larger slugs was on the inside track tidying up for me and I didn’t want to disturb it while it had its head stuck down in the trough. So I just kept half an eye on the open door to make sure no mice crept in, and got on with my dinner.

When I was done, I hobbled over to the doorway and instead of crouching down as I normally would I lay down because that was easier on my toe. So there I was draped over the threshold with one little slug nibbling – well, radulating – and one big slug doing the same, and a couple of others down below on the pavement mucking about.

I greeted them all, my friendly allies, and took note of the pleasant air where no screen was there to stop it from moving against my skin. And I took a few relaxed breaths and watched them at their work. I had with me a small piece of apple to see if I could lure my large friend from its task.

There was something comforting about breaking up this little piece of fruit and distributing it amongst them. Comforting because I was treating them as I would any other creature, rather than simply despairing or resenting because of the work they do on plants I’ve been cultivating, or being grossed out because of their form and fluid state.  Comforting to drop the illusion of being enemies.

The little one stretched out its tentacles as it inspected its piece and the two below moved towards theirs at that gentle pace that slugs employ. But the chunky one on the inside of the threshold didn’t even blink. There was something delicious in that trench, that place that I can’t get at very easily to clean, so I left it to its meal.

You know how, when you are around people who are revved up and ready to dance, their energy can be infectious and before you know it you are revved up, too. Or when you are with praying people or meditating people that can inspire you to feel prayerful or meditative, in that moment. I found that being up close to these beings, with nothing I needed to do, watching them moving in their sedate way, I slowed down, as well. And as I watched them move, extending their tentacles or changing direction in a slow but flowing manner, I began to realise that if they were humans moving in that way and not these creatures that people find so horrifying, I would describe the movement as sensual or like a dance.

I became mesmerised and very happy spending time with them.

I went away and returned when it was time to go to bed. I needed to move my little friend whether it liked it or not. But when I returned it had made a fast track across the doorstep and up the frame halfway to the top. As gently as I could, I took it by its waist and began to detach it. This action met with great resistance. Slugs are very good at gluing themselves to things when they want to. I wonder what kind of substance it is that can both act as a lubricant to move across and a glue so they can’t be pulled away. Even when I had peeled the entire length of this being’s body away from the frame its chin stuck fast. I began to worry I’d do damage if it wouldn’t let go, so I used another finger to jimmy it loose. The amazing thing to me was, when I placed it down on the apple bit, it went straight to nibbling, completely unflustered by our struggle a moment earlier.

It is a deep pleasure to find again and again that time spent in quiet observation of beasts, from bears to cats to spiders to slugs, always leaves me with the sense of having been fully and wonderfully alive.

I have changed my mind about one thing. I’m not going to tell you the sad story. Let’s stay with this one for a bit.

Image of a small slug in the door frame. Casey June Wolf.

Grace and Lynn - In Garments Made of Love

 

It's been a long time since I have posted here. All I could write about was grief, and I decided to stop a while. 

This wasn't meant to be a blog post. It was to be a short note that I would stuff in with the clothes I am sending Lynn. But it got longer, and more intense. When I was done, I wanted to share it with you.

                                                                                                                    24 June 2022

Precious Lynn,

I have hung onto these clothes for many years, since the original owner, my sweet and elderly friend Grace, died and left her husband Bill and I bereft and sorry.

I want you to have them. I hope you or Lee or someone you love can make use of them. If not, they are yours to pass on or hang onto as I have.

Grace died about thirty-five years ago, and these were old then, archived in drawers and closets.

Grace and Bill rented the main floor of a large Victorian house set back against the alley. There were three plum trees, an apple, a vast rhododenron, and many smaller plants in our big front yard at 1663 Frances Street, just off Commercial Drive.

Grace couldn't leave her floor. There was a long, steep staircase at the front preventing her, and a good verandah where she would sometimes stand and take in the air. Her cussing, grade three educated husband, Bill, had a complicated relationship with the world, but Grace assured me he was a good man, so I persisted until I could finally be his friend.

Many years before, when Grace was a waitress at a workers' café on Hastings Street (The Milo), she and another waitress , and a fellow her friend knew, went to Ambleside Beach on their day off. The friend and the fellow went into the bushes, leaving Grace alone for awhile.

Grace raised the resulting boy.

At some point Bill, one of her customers, became angry at how her boss treated her, and told the man she was quitting and coming to live with him.

Grace was one of the gentlest women I have ever known. Her dream, never realised, was to one day travel by car all the way across Canada, to see it all.

You would have loved her.

For many, most, of the years of my life I suffered great emotional pain and despair. I would cry my heart out and curse, hoping they couldn't hear me through those old timber floors. I asked her once if my crying bothered her. She lied, said she couldn't even hear me. It was a safe harbour to live through my grief.

I'm telling you all this so you can know, in a small way, the woman who bought these clothes so many years ago. I loved her, and I love you. May you be safe and loved as Grace was with Bill. Imperfect, loyal, and kind. It's all we need, and all we need to be.

Love,

Casey