A Crash, A Concussion. And years later, the Memories.

 

That’s me on the left--the girl with the scowl. And there’s my brother, smiling. It’s 1962. There’s a whole lot behind this photograph. My father posed us in front of the new car he had just bought to replace the Ford that was destroyed when my mother and I were in a crash on the Connecticut Turnpike. She was still in the hospital when this photograph was taken, barely alive--her hip, knee and ankle shattered. I survived--a miracle, since this was in the days before safety belts and I was thrown through the windshield landing in the grass on the side of the highway.

But why the scowl? I am eight years old, about to start the fourth grade. Mrs. Poole will be my teacher in September at Belltown Elementary School and I imagine I’ll be able to get out of school work, because I have a concussion.

But Mrs. Poole was strict and she didn’t buy this tactic. That’s all I remember from the fourth grade. The rest is a concussive blur. The next thing I remember is waking up and it’s November 1963, I’m in the fifth grade and the teacher tells us we can go home early because our president has been shot.

That’s how a lot of my childhood felt--like slides in a Kodak Carousel--moving fast, flipping through the years with some jumbled images from vacations and holidays and then some years--just blank. Completely blank.

But here’s the remarkable part about being seventy-two years old--my brain has started filling in the missing pieces. Everyday brings new discoveries. I may not remember where I put the car keys, but I remember the jump rope song from second grade. (Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack), not that your asked.

It’s all a miracle. Truly.

Creative Friends-- If you are reading this and you are young--slow down and observe. Write things down. Record events. Take pictures. Do whatever you can to hold onto your memories. And if you are old, like me and memories have begun to slowly trickle back into your consciousness, then take the time to honor them. Build on the memories available to you now and slowly fill in all the missing pieces. And then, like Proust after his taste of the Madeleine—your story be illuminated.

Love,

Jamie

Creative Enchantment

 

Last night, I returned from a month away at my artist residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Even now, the enchantment of a residency is still with me, buzzing around me. How can I describe it? It’s kind of like spending the summer at camp--where you meet wonderful new friends and you swim and learn how to make lanyards and you sit around the campfire and laugh and cry over the scary stories.

In the case of an artists residency, there are no scary stories, but rather nightly artist talks and writers readings. Oh, and composers playing music. Singing. Walks. Intense conversations. Heartfelt revelations. During the day when you’re working, things are relatively quiet, but as you walk down the path to the studios, you can feel the buzz of the artist worker bees. It’s energizing and inspiring. Pictured above, are the chairs under the tree where we generally take our boxed lunches. And talk.

But, sometimes you don’t take your lunch with the group. You are too immersed in your project and you lunch alone in your studio because you want to stay in that creative dream space, deeply immersed in a state of enchantment.

Once you’ve experienced living in a place made up entirely of creatives, it’s hard to imagine a world without this sense of camaraderie along with the freedom to be completely yourself.

Creative Friends--find a place where you surround yourself with people who care deeply about the holy act of bringing beauty into this world. You can find your creative space in your own backyard. At a local cafe or library or knitting club. You can find your creative space in your own heart, among your people. Truly, you don’t have to go to an artist residency—however, if you can, I highly recommend it.

With love and gratitude,

Jamie

A Long and Winding Road

This is the path to the studios at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. I've walked it for over forty years, starting during the summer of 1982, when I first arrived as a writing fellow.

 

And so now, I am currently the oldest fellow, surrounded by writers and artists and composers in their twenties and thirties. A few in their forties and fifties. But still, they're young! And, oh my goodness, they're so talented, so inspiring, especially to someone like me who's been around the block a time or two. Or five or six or seven or eight.

 

Just call me Grandma Jamie. Actually, I prefer the moniker--Fellow Emeritus--the wise old professor.

I like being old. And I don't want to pretend I'm not old. In fact, I am leaning into this age thing, because it has some delightful benefits. The younger fellows are super-nice to me. Maybe it's because they think I'm not long for this world.

 

Just kidding! I plan to stick around for a while yet.

 

The other day, a poet commented on how I was very good at yoga. (Yes, we practice Ashtanga yoga here at VCCA.) I replied that this shouldn't be surprising because I've been practicing yoga for over fifty years. She looked at me, full of wonder. Fifty years. Incredible.

 

Even to me, it seems incredible.

 

Creative Friends--don't let a number stop you from fully living your life. Be brave and a little adventurous. Open your heart to the unexpected opportunities. Most importantly, be generous to those who are just now beginning their journey. This is not about simply offering up your hard-won wisdom, but rather it's about being a good role model. In the immortal words of Marilyn Monroe--we all get old and we all lose our looks in the end. In order words, no one gets out of Planet Earth alive. So, before you go, make sure you follow the camper's creed and leave this place a little better than you found it.

 

With gratitude to Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and all my fellow artists throughout the decades.

 

Love,

Jamie

A Tale of Two Towers

 

                        The author looking out at the Twin Towers. Photo by Robert Carioscia.

This week during my 7 a.m. novelist group, one of the writers presented an excerpt from the novel Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. The novel is about Phillipe Petit’s death-defying 1974 high-wire walk between the two towers of The World Trade Center.

Colum McCann describes the reactions from the spectators down below on the streets of Lower Manhattan that early morning in August. Some were confused, some were awed, some mesmerized. Some imagined a terrible fall from the enormous towers. But some were just annoyed by the interruption on their way to work.

Two years later in 1976 when I was en route to my temp job downtown, a man stood beside me at the cross walk and pointed up at the still-new Twin Towers and he told me how he witnessed Phillippe Petit’s spectacular high-wire act. This man was so enthralled by his experience, that he wanted to describe the excitement of the day to me--a stranger on a street corner. And so simply by listening, I became a witness to a witness.

Yesterday was the anniversary of 9/11 and my friend Elizabeth told me about her habit of emerging from the subway and then looking for the towers in order to determine whether she was facing uptown or downtown. We all did this back then--as a convenient way to find our bearings after emerging from the darkness of the tunnel.

It was something we all took for granted. But no more.

Loss has a shape. When it first arrives, it’s hard and sharp. It’s all angles. It pokes and pings. Then as time passes--say twenty-five years--loss grows softer, more rounded. Perhaps covered in mist.

But still, no less painful.

Creative Friends--our world is changing all the time. Be a witness. Listen. You may find loss. Tragedy. Even horror. But if you keep your eyes open, you might also be rewarded by unexpected delight--the surprising beauty of a lithe young man on a high-wire as he transverses the distance between two towers.

Love,

Jamie

Our Mother, Our Selves

 

Gloria Marie Steinem and her mother, Ruth Nuneviller Steinem

Like her daughter—Gloria Steinem’s mother, Ruth Nuneviller Steinem—was also a writer. In fact, she was a reporter and an editor for the Toledo Blaze--although, she was made to publish under a man’s name. Those were the days. Everyone accepted it. But then, maybe not. Maybe they just pretended that they accepted it.

Once Gloria’s father left the family, Ruth went on to suffer from several nervous breakdowns and later as a single parent with little money and little support, she raised Gloria on her own. Gone was the opportunity to fulfill her own dreams and ambitions.

Here’s what Gloria Steinem said about our mothers and daughters:

A lot of us had mothers who were driven crazy by society. Or who just couldn’t be powerful through no fault of theirs. Society wouldn’t let them be powerful. In some sense we were motherless. The women’s movement allowed women to become each others mothers. And to support and model and hope and praise and love each other enough so that we could begin to repair the early damage.

This is why we had Consciousness Raising Workshops. At this point in time, it may seem quaint, but back in the late sixties, women did not feel safe freely sharing the growing sense that the world felt terribly unfair. We were told to be grateful if we were able to find a husband and our only ambition in life should be to keep a tidy home and care for the babies. I know this because at fifteen I begin attending Consciousness Raising Workshops with my mother (who like Gloria’s mother had a nervous breakdown). We were joined by my mother’s very progressive cousin, Beatrice. I am forever grateful for this sisterhood. And I believe it was hearing these women’s stories that made me want to be a writer and to make a difference in the world.

Creative Friends--in honor of Gloria’s memory, I would like to suggest that we mother each other, that we encourage each other’s creative endeavors and ambitions. Let’s make the world a kinder, more generous place--so that we may all feel the power of being loved and mothered and supported.

Love,

Jamie