The Carriage Light
Candles lit, nestled back into the warm blues of the corner chair in Coloma, Michigan surrounded by a yellow flickering glow in the early morning before the light of day fills the east. Grey skies refuse to reflect the still lake below. The ritual of the ‘first cup’; the sound of the coffee poured into a mug while the gurgle of the brew continues. Watching the steam rise like a morning mist tasting rich and satiating, filling all the senses at once. Breathing in a bold new day full of promise and clarity. Being, present in the moment. A fisherman drifts by poles lofted, waiting. The current moves him west. Twenty feet east a carp flips high above the water, an exclamation point on freedom.
Three weeks to the day, a sabbatical, “Sharon finding Sharon,” something in the distance only slightly illuminated is suddenly burning brightly. Incredibly, after journaling for more than 50 years, I finally have so much clarity and this story begs to be told. Journaling most of my life produced a lot of internal conversations. Writing has always helped me process both strife and celebrations opening my eyes to myself. But after Jim’s Aunt suggested last October that I write a book of all the incredible stories in my life, I began to ponder how I might consider this. Knowing Martha’s Vineyard to be a writer’s inspiration, I decided that blogging about my journey to the Vineyard, on my ‘bucket list’, might be a good start to flex my writer’s muscles. On our random walk through the Morton Arboretum, my good friend Nancy suggested I reach out to Katie O’Connell, a blogger herself, www.heartwiredwriting.com, as well as a writing coach, to gain some insights. Meeting Katie is a breath of fresh air and I know instantly she is a soul seeker comrade. Our mutual relationship with Nancy, who Katie calls “a box of surprises” is so on target about Nancy’s creative core, I am immediately prompted to write my first story about following Nancy’s joy from the moment we met 37 years ago when God brought us together through our babies, born with Down Syndrome (Bridget and Rachel) suitably entitled, ‘A Box of Surprises.’ I send it off to Katie and looked forward to our collaboration.
It is Katie, who shines a bright light on me through her kaleidoscope, refracting my gifts through the light of her feedback reflecting on my ‘voice and style’ as a writer. Interestingly, after our weekly zoom meetings, her written summaries back are mostly my own words. But there is enlightenment when the words bounce back through her crystals. Somehow, the ideas appear differently when they boomerang. There is new insight when the written word is spoken, then returned to its creator. Simultaneously, I sign up for a Memoir writing class with a teacher located on Martha’s Vineyard, a random find, or maybe divine in retrospect, when searching for experiences at my destination. Aline Wolff, the teacher, provides me and five other students weekly practice with writing prompts and a toolbox of strategies to bring memories to life for our potential readers. Six weeks later, several of us meet up on the Vineyard, a cathartic finish to the class and more connections on this life changing journey. I tell Katie how memoir writing produces anxiety in me, too much pain comes sputtering onto the pages, I feel nauseous. Katie tells me to ‘sit with it,’ write the pain on a separate sheet of paper then decide if I want to tear it up. I throw up the pain all over the paper it is written upon. So, I sit with it, wondering if Katie is actually a therapist too.
I continue to turn the pages God has written of my story. Reflecting on the start of this writing road, the discovery of Anne Lamott, author extraordinaire, while perusing the internet, searching for inspiration provided a rudder. Her book, Bird by Bird , about how to get started writing your story grabs my attention. I buy the kindle version from Amazon. She talks about writing through pain, emotional honestly and telling the truth. She tells the story of her father coaching her brother on a paper he had due for school that was overwhelming. Her dad tells him to take it “Bird by Bird,” and I hear myself say, ‘one story at a time, Shar.’ After listening to Anne in a Ted talk, I see she has a one-day class online. I sign up for the class, I read Bird by Bird, insights flash by like a flurry of birds in flight. Saturday, May 7th, Anne’s class competes with a wedding for Anne Costabile, the daughter of Jim’s cousin, the celebration in Asheville, NC another artist’s mecca. After three hours of Anne Lamott’s wisdom, I realize I can put that pain to the side for now and find joy at the heart of my new writing journey. Anne says to just get it all out on the paper, so I just start there.
Anne Lamott’s words ruminate through me. Wondering how this will all fit together, we head out into the Asheville countryside. The Barn at Honeysuckle Hill is the wedding venue flanked by rolling pastures, an historic Hayloft Chapel and a quaint red barn that quickly morphs into a foot stomping country classy southern wedding where the second Anne I meet, Anne Costabile & Cody Jett tie the knot. I am totally surprised when to see the third ‘Anne’ Ferris Rosen, author and another cousin to a cousin in the buffet line at the country wedding. Having met this Anne in a past visit, as an author and teacher, she too agrees to provide feedback on my writing. ‘Bird by Bird’ style God plants the seeds needed for my garden of stories.
The next day, we take a serendipitous turn in the Asheville hills when we head to the Treehouses of Serenity for a spontaneous overnight, another item on my ‘bucket list’; staying in a treehouse. Incredibly, they had a last minute opening in ‘The Perch’ treehouse, ‘hummm’, I’m told this never happens. Expansive views from every window of the Blue Ridge mountains and a wonderland of other treehouses surround my swelling excitement. The covered porch around the front has a swing filled with welcoming pillows. An incredible thing begins to happen as I settle in to test my growing knowledge. The seeds planted in these past couple of weeks begin to sprout. I feel creative stirrings from cherished memories. I hear the warble of God’s plan amongst the treetops.. The birds, free, flying high with their songs floating from each branch, nature their home in all its splendor and a flickering night light illuminates the dusty corners of my imagination waiting to share something deep within. Words rambling through the pages of my journals for so many years beg for their songs to be written. God slowly tickles my fingers letting me know this turn in the road can be full of wonder and pushes me toward discovery both inside and out, reminding me that all I really need to know is within. Anne Lamott’s words echo from her class, “You can either set brick as a laborer or as an artist. You can make the work a chore, or you can have a good time. You can do it the way you used to clear the dinner dishes when you were thirteen, or you can do it as a Japanese person would perform a tea ceremony, with a level of concentration and care in which you can lose yourself, and so in which you can find yourself.”
Flashing forward to Michigan, I glance up at the growing light of day, the solitary duck appears on the lake, again. He spent the day yesterday, alone, fishing, bobbing and floating, waiting. Where is SHE? Two days ago, she was pacing, waddling along the seawall, back and forth: like a woman in labor. Maybe they are waiting for life to begin? Are there eggs hidden somewhere nearby now? She is gone. Is this a metaphor for life, always waiting for something? Begging the question…What do I want in life right now? What am I awaiting? What catalyst brings answers? What adventures lie ready to inspire? Those conjured up in these past few weeks, each somehow reflecting the road inside me. Shining a light on the joy that has always been available but not always accessed. Turning the want out to pasture, with the power of creating, I begin writing the stories.
Driving by the Antique shop I had passed now many times it calls, ‘pop in’ on my way to the ferry for departure from the Vineyard. I pull in with Sami and flutter about, one of my favorite past-times, like a Hummingbird searching for nectar. A Bright Red ‘flower’, high on a wardrobe, draws me to it. Resembling a lighthouse, Jimmy, the shop owner pulls it down for me. It is a 19th century Carriage Light. I stand mesmerized, drinking in it’s sweetness. I hear God whisper, “Take the carriage light as a symbol to continue to illuminate your path. Hold tight to the insights found with each of these new experiences.” Jimmy carries the treasure out and as I head to the ferry, my heart flutters with delight. I’m reminded of my Jim’s comments while in the Vineyard, “Shar, eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired, write when you’re inspired,” and mine, “sojourn when the well is dry and be in the moment.” My carriage is now moving forward with its lights burning brightly, endeavoring to reflect that joy back to me each day. Katie and I talk about going home. We talk about the ‘voice’ I have claimed as a writer. Don’t let its candle “burn out” on re-entry, she tells me. “Identify then and now,” and keep moving forward. What I know of ‘now,’ purely self-directed for three weeks produced peace; carve out time for my peace to grow. The carriage light found in the Vineyard a glowing reminder illuminates what I know of ‘then,’ too much energy on others. Take back some of what was always given freely to water my own garden.
Now home, reflecting on the time spent with myself, people set in my path and the meaning of this confluence of events, there is an awakening in my soul. This grand illumination came while Gone with the Winnie heading east and on the return carriage ride west with an Almighty coachman always ready to orchestrate when I am ready to listen. How does the internal compass direct our lives? Due north set early in childhood, finding our north star following as the night to the day. For me, born of the mother road, excitement was always present traversing her countryside. The journey to Martha’s Vineyard became the teacher this time and I her student with a series of lessons along the way. Song lyrics, my ABCs as the Winnie rolled and the music inspired memories of youth-filled adventures, the soul of my journey. Dad began with me, gone 19 years now but still, as always, ready to ‘take a ride’ with whoever could be rounded up. No surprise, the longing for the rest of my family to share this ride soon followed bringing sweetness and loss. Thoughts of my little sister, holding hands walking together as children, now gone 5 years, sparks a look from Sami and a kiss on my nose as I wipe the salt from my cheeks. My brother, pops into my heart, disconnected now, an island alone with his family. Mom, there for me always, still. They all decide to join me, memories exploding along curves and hills, with campfires and laughter, cow pastures and train trestles.
Like a grainy black and white filmstrip running through its projector, the soundless sights flickered to the music streaming from Pandora. I watched my brother bouncing in his VW playpen up and down with laughter as we headed west to Disneyland. Years later, seeing our growing family, all hands on the back of the same red VW bus, pushing fast downhill for a jump-start while Dad hit the clutch popping it into gear and the following rumble as we all ran to launch ourselves into the sparkless moving vehicle. I saw my mother saying the rosary in the front seat of our ’69 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon. The three of us, kids, in the ‘way back bed seat’ staring at the snow-covered trees through the rectangular ‘vista’ of the windows lining the roof of the car, while we felt the clink, clink, clink of the chains on the wheels climbing the snow-covered mountain road to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. A night spent in the hotel boarding rooms above a bar, God’s answer to Mom’s prayers. I saw my dad early on Sunday morning at the entrance to a Key Largo church, dumping a bucket of tiny bulging eyed smelts on the street behind the car, caught on a pier in the dark the night before, bait for our early morning fishing excursion. Followed by my sister and I, still wearing our bathing suits, as we piously knelt for communion wrapped in towel sarongs, with tears suddenly flowing as my sister’s sarong dropped to the ground on her return to the pew. The hours of driving floating as a feather in a soft breeze, a 65-year film running in my head, paused only for Sami’s intermissions every 3 hours or so.
Girl Scout outings both mine and my kiddos, reminders along the way of the strength and preparedness developed, the bedrock of my love for the outdoors and the impetus for a camping experience on this trip. A final arrival at Woods Hole, MA where the ferry departs for Martha’s Vineyard, I back the Winnie into its spot to await boarding. Right in front of me, I spot another RV with a car in tow anticipating the ferry as well. Sami moves into her favorite captain’s seat when I head over to say hi to the fellow campers. Laura (Petri I tell her, so I remember her name) and Fred (like another bearded friend named Fred-my memory jogger) smile through their windows and we chat about our travels and destination to it turns out, the only campground on the Vineyard. We decide to find each other when we get there and soon enough discover we are shouting distance neighbors. A fire, warm and welcoming, our first encounter getting to know each other that night. My partner, Sami quite happy to lay next to me, grateful to be still, joins us. Hailing from Connecticut, Laura and Fred share their life stories and I too tell them of my writing sojourn. Laura, as God knew, is a children’s book illustrator and we instantly connect as creative spirits. Cancer survivors and copious caretakers of others bind us further. Fred’s love of camping, having owned a campground and raised their girls there, strengthens our common bonds. We laugh over the wet wood smoldering in front of us and I leave Sami momentarily to pull out the fabulous, bagged wood we used to distribute to Weber Grill Restaurant in our Get Fresh Produce days. The fire is blazing almost instantly fueling our time to visit late into the night and fusing our connections for the rest of our days in the Vineyard. Two days later another campfire, of course requiring Weber wood, Laura invites Renee and Leo, French Canadians, their new neighbors, to join us. More heartfelt connections, as we all share the raising of children, the losses of family members, battling sickness and the joys found in careers chosen. At the core, all with common values and the search for fulfillment at this stage in life. Another set of friends, the glue I needed while traveling solo; God’s arms wrapping me securely with a feeling of safety and connection.
Lastly, but really first, are the wonderful friends and family members God placed in my path that joined me on the road to Martha’s Vineyard. Facebook helping to keep sparks alive across the country and down roads traveled together at some point. When reaching out before embarking on this adventure, I posed the question, “who would want to hear what I write?” I was incredibly touched by so many saying they would want to follow my travels in a blog. Then came the wonderful ideas in response to a request for naming the blog. ‘Gone with the Winnie,’ my favorite from Dori, one of Rachel’s most loved mentors. In my heart, I hoped there would be some answers to those questions we all ask of life. I hoped we might find some together. Amazingly, like rain on spring’s promise, yellows, pinks, purples and burnt orange flowers have bloomed in my garden. You all did help me with feedback on the stories I have shared surprising me, some of you even quoting me to me!
Katie came along, as she said, “strapped to the top of the Winnie,” coaching for success all the way. My daughters, always supporters, “mom, you do you” echoing between them and Rachel’s weekly calls to find where I was. But my husband, Jim, the unexpected greatest supporter of my writing, reading the posts two and three times concurrently, now convinced he wants to join the next camping trip, a surprising turn around for a luxury hotel seeker. One of the most significant trips I have ever made, this sojourn proved the words of my favorite quote by Ursula Le Guin, “It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” And so, I journey on, the carriage light found in Martha’s Vineyard firmly affixed to the front of the Winnie shining brightly, helping me see each story coming around the next curve in this road called life.
I hope you will all continue to travel with me, with the Carriage Light helping to illuminate your stories too.
