Making Space

This last Thursday was the fourth gathering of our Writer’s Circle Workshop Series, co-hosted with John Adler. We tackled our own conceptions about what writers are, played mix-up with syntax, and shared stories about those moments in writing when you can feel the story or the poem welling up, and your job is to show up at the page and write it down before the magical moment disappears.

We also spent time on how spaces have stories. Natalie Goldberg, the author who inspires the themes of the workshop series, encourages folks to write in all kinds of spaces—in cafes, in laundromats, in parks, in busses, in your home, in busy places, in quiet places. Learn to listen to the rhythms of the place, interesting things people say, colors, smells, the way the light moves through the space.

Spaces have a past, a present, and a future. They have a mood, are filled with (or empty of) objects. People move in and out of them. One of our writing exercises in the class was to “Be the Room” for a 15-minute free-write. We were sitting upstairs at Farmstead Creamery in the loft, surrounded by holiday decorations and the smell of cookies baking in the kitchen downstairs. In that moment, we all went someplace in our thoughts and our pens—the winter-harvested carrots in the display cooler downstairs, how the loft offered a haven from the commerce transactions below, or how a room shelters what is inside from that which is outside.

My writing was influenced by knowing the past of the space, having been a part of the team that designed and built it. For me, the space held the story of its inception and intent, as well as the layers added day-by-day through those who have chosen to visit. Here is what I wrote during the exercise:

Be the Room

Time and dreams. So much can happen from dreams given time, then material. A room is a space created to house time, a facilitator, born of dreams, nurturing dreams, hopes, desires. Inspired by a near century-old barn less than a quarter of a mile away, I was formed of design, desire, begun on graph paper and pencil and endless erasing.

Young dreams, so determined to make a difference, to make real, in a world that is leaning so heavily towards the virtual. Every inch considered. Every corner adjusted. My bones went up in summertime, my foundation threatened by rain, my roof in time for winter snow. Colors agonized over, every detail in sweat equity, guided by experienced hands. The pungent smell of stain and poly, when it was too cold to work outdoors. The buzz of saw, AM radio, and the hollers of carpenters.

So many thought to second guess me. So many waited for me to fail.

But they believed, continued to believe in the dream, in the desire. Build it and they will come, a voice in the wilderness, a haven in a crazed and sordid world.

In the middle of nowhere—is anywhere nowhere? If you are there, then it’s somewhere.

I bear the mark of those who touched me—the boot imprint in the concrete by the kitchen, the fingerprints on the glass, the remains of scuffs from shoes and walkers, the chocolate milk lingering behind the baseboard from naughty sisters who wouldn’t even sit at the same table as their parents.

I have sheltered laughter, celebrations of seasons and aging. I have sheltered the grieving, who chose to come here first after the loss of a loved one. I have sheltered the internet seekers with their steaming cups of coffee, my family during the great storm, as they took refuge during the pelting winds and hail, not knowing if there would even be a farm upon emerging from the tempest.

I’ve resounded with music, poetic words, announcements, and stories. They soak into the pores of my wood, collect in the dust of my wrought iron, settle in my chairs repurposed from Tally-Ho upon new ownership.

I am not as old as my predecessor, still standing in the barnyard, and mine is a different charge. Instead of holding hay and livestock, I am tickled by the smell of fresh blueberry muffins, delighted by the taste of the next scoop of gelato, and panged by the next wondering, “Is this IT?!” from a wayward wanderer so clouded by their expectation of what I should be that they cannot see what I really am—what I cradle in my belly, hang upon my walls, spill out from every corner.

I know that I will not last forever, but while I am here, I hope to shelter that which brings peace, brings light, brings hope. I seek to bring comfort to those who choose to travel and walk in my door. I am full of possibilities.

***

The next Writer’s Circle Workshop will be held the 2nd Thursday of January, from 3 to 5 pm, and everyone is welcome—even if you’ve missed the previous sessions! Keep writing, and we’ll see you down on the farm sometime.