Post-AROHO: A Renewed Sense of Writing

by | Sep 4, 2013 | Writers & the Writing Life | 6 comments

Moon-over-MesaMonday after the AROHO retreat at Ghost Ranch I woke up early, came into my kitchen and looked at the sun—almost an eclipse behind bay fog—then tasted the sweet tang of Meyer lemon, the first fruit borne by my four-year-old tree. I watched a spider tiptoe up my bathroom wall, as if she too had just awakened, her legs as delicate as eyelashes, her eyes bulging to take in as much of the world around her as she could see, a world I thought she might have forgotten to look at during all those years of writing in her quiet, compulsive way. At my desk I noted that she was a spider, not a writer, and that I was an almost awake woman, up and journaling first thing in the morning, breathing in the moist bay air I had missed so much during my week in the desert, my lips sunburned and cracking, my mind still filled with love and the humble, bright possibility of being who I am in the world among the women on the mesa under the moon at Ghost Ranch … even while sitting here, at my desk, back at home, the morning after.

This was a life-changing retreat. At AROHO 2011 I discovered my capacity for focus. This year I brought clarity and focus with me, along with two years of growth as a writer. I knew the week would bring surprises. I just didn’t know how those surprises would manifest or how powerful they would be. All week one hundred brilliant, creative AROHO women talked, walked, observed, studied, laughed, counseled, wrote, read our work aloud, cheered each other on, made new friends, cherished old friends, and on the last night, danced in jubilation.

The first surprise came three days before the retreat, when I lucked into a sudden open slot in Janet Fitch’s small group, a master class called “The Art of the Senses” that has transformed me. I’ve known about and have sometimes practiced writing from the senses since I took my first writing class as an undergraduate, but it’s been a long time since I’ve written fiction and I’ve felt rusty in this aspect of craft. I’ve felt dull, strapped to my desk and my computer, working hard day in and day out, losing myself in my work on the nonfiction book, hunched over my keyboard. Janet Fitch woke me up. She offered our small group a graduate-level class in four sessions, with insights, ideas, exercises, and practices to spark a lifetime of discovery and enliven our writing.

In future posts I’ll write more about the retreat and the new practices I’m developing as a result of what I learned there. The first new practice has been to take a little time every day to tune into my senses. In “The Art of the Senses” Janet taught us how to be children again in a curious, engaged, unselfconscious way, to go into the world with love and interest, with senses heightened, and to describe our impressions. I’ve taken to touching plants to get a feel for their texture, smelling leaves of eucalyptus and lemon verbena, looking at the way light shines on objects, and lugging my camera with me on evening walks so that later, when I review the photos, I can see how much I didn’t see when I took the shots and can train myself to look more closely. My evening walks have been transformed into sense adventures.

Red-Cord-SilkAs soon as I got home from Ghost Ranch I went into the garden to water, prune, and harvest. The corn I was worried about before I left for the retreat had come in while I was gone. I had not been sure that it would come in, because the tassels had emerged before I saw any sign of ears, and the silk and the tassels must be present together for the corn to be fertile. I was surprised to find that this corn, which I had grown from seed, had produced. The color of its silk surprised me too, a rhubarb blush that reminded me of the hair of a doll I possessed when I was young, a doll whose hair could grow and was somehow—maybe as in the tale of Rapunzel—a key to her being. I realized that I had a complex relationship with this doll and many questions about her, so I went straight from the corn silk to my computer, to a morning of research and writing that brought me memories and story lines I’m eager to explore.

It is good to go to an AROHO retreat and bask in the wisdom, generosity, and creative work of the women there and to dance with them in the moonlight. It is good to come home again and to wake up the morning after, more yourself than you used to be.

Comments

6 Comments

  1. Aine Greaney

    Great and sensuous post, Barbara. I loved “White Oleander,” and love the movie, too.

  2. Tania

    Rhubarb blush, you poet you, is perfect haiku for describing that corn silk…I love it Barbara, as I do that last line, “It’s good to come home again and wake up the morning after, more yourself than you used to be.”
    What a profoundly transformative retreat. So look forward to reading the new work that arrives for all of us who gathered at AROHO, and love that we get to share the process forward and on the good goes to writers of like mind.

  3. Barbara Ann Yoder

    Thanks, Aine and Tania! I have to thank Janet Fitch, too, for her remarkable class at AROHO. This post would not have been possible without it.

  4. Cherilyn

    What a lovely post! Loved that first paragraph especially. And thanks for the rich list of links at the end. I’ll check them out.

  5. Jane Schulman

    Barbara, This writing is magnificent. Thank you so much for demonstrating how to transition home from such a transformative experience as AROHO. I love the way you immediately made concrete the lessons you learned — like tuning into and writing from your senses. Your garden looks and sounds like a magical place — your “rhubarb” corn silk like a desert cactus flower. Hope that you maintain your momentum.
    Regards, Jane

  6. Barbara Ann Yoder

    Thanks, Cherilyn and Jane. I’m glad you like this post!

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