WHAT
I BRING BACK FOR YOU
I am weary, saturated with the day's events, but I want to stay focused on
my daughter. Her eight-year-old voice sounds younger on the phone, and I wish
I could wrap my arms around her.
"What do you do at a writing conference?" she wants to know.
We've had this conversation before, but I tell her again. "Well, at this
conference I go to classes and learn about writing and . . .other stuff."
"What other stuff?"
My mind replays the past 12 hours. This afternoon, I had shared an incredible
workshop with a dozen other women, all of us writing from our diverse religious
pasts--75 minutes of revelation, honesty, tears and hard laughter. Earlier,
I had plotted the bones of a novel with three women I had never met before,
using pictures from magazines and randomly chosen quotes, an exercise in imagination
and shared wisdom. Then I had attended a critique class, hearing some fine
work in progress and the gentle, productive feedback each woman needed for
the next step in her work.
But wrapped around my heart was the way I had spent my morning, participating
in a dream workshop. Guided by the facilitator, I had taken myself to a quiet,
wooded place in search of an animal guide. I was led out of the forest and
into a sunny, open field, and there, I met a red-winged blackbird. I asked
her if she had any wisdom for me.
She said: Notice how I land on this slender blade of grass, over and over,
and how, each time, it supports me. It does not look like enough, but it is.
Watch the way I nurture this flock of goldfinches that shares my meadow. They
are happy and well fed, yet I always make sure there is enough for me to eat,
too. How would I care for them otherwise?
There was more before she swooped away against the summer sky: Many think
the robin is the first sign of spring, but I can sense the new season even
when winter's chill casts long shadows. I know what hope looks like. I feel
the vibration of new life before it is made visible. You can, too. Be that
first harbinger of spring; sing its song before the sun is strong enough to
make it so. Then she had flown away, her wings spread wide. Before she disappeared,
I heard, And always wear a bit of color on your shoulders.
"Mom."
"Yes, honey. I'm here."
"What other stuff?"
"It's hard to explain. Tell you what. Maybe some day you can come here
with me, and you’ll find out for yourself."
"I would love that. Can we share a room?"
"We'll see. You might want a room of your own by then."
"I don't think so. I want to be with you. Does your room have one of
those little coffee makers you like? Can you get room service?"
I grin as I stare at the blank white walls of my dorm room.
"No, honey, it's not like a hotel here. This week is not like. . . anything
I've ever experienced before."
"I miss you."
"I miss you, too."
"Daddy doesn't know our prayer."
"Do you want me to say it for you right now?" I ask.
She does, and I murmur our nighttime prayer into the receiver, a simple recitation
about unconditional love, gratitude, a request for guidance. When I finish,
there is silence on the other end, and I realize she is weeping. My heart
cracks, and I wonder if the prayer was a mistake. A few minutes ago she was
chattering happily about her week with her dad and big brother: French fries
every day; an outing to a big amusement park; an overnight stay in a hotel
with a swimming pool. Now I have made her cry.
"When are you coming home?" she says in a small voice.
"In just a few days," I whisper back. I need to salvage the conversation.
I don't want her to go to bed sad.
"I'm bringing you back something special," I tell her. It is a simple
thing, an empty glass bottle that held rich mineral water from Saratoga Springs.
I know she will admire its shapeliness, its rich cobalt color, the swirl of
gold letters around its neck. She will put it on her bedroom shelf and fill
it with snapdragons and dandelions.
The promise of a surprise is enough to pique her curiosity, and we say our
goodnights without tears.
When I return home, I unwrap the blue bottle and give it to her. She is delighted
as I knew she would be. "Is this the special something you were telling
me about?" she asks, turning it around in her hands.
I tell her it is, but I have brought her something even better, a gift that
will last a long time. I have brought her a mother who is wearing a wide smile,
a mother filled up by a week with women and their words.
Writer's note: The writer's conference described in this essay is the
annual International Women's Writing Guild's "Remember the Magic"
conference, held at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, NY.
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