October 2008

Me, Myself and I, II, III

The first time I took myself on a solitary writing retreat, I was no good at it. I didn’t pack enough food, so I was starving the whole weekend. I tried to start a fire in the little fireplace, but I got frustrated and gave up. Once I finished a day's writing, I didn't know what to do. The silence made me so jittery that I went home a day early. I couldn't bear to be so lonely.

A couple of weeks ago, I was close to finishing a draft of a new story. I needed some peace and quiet in order to complete it, so I decided on a four-day retreat to Little Falls, Minnesota.

I’d stay in a tiny one-room cabin a quarter mile from the Center of Franciscan Sisters to which it belonged. A cabin in the middle of nowhere, all to myself, where I can do exactly what I want? The idea thrilled me. And terrified me. Alone with myself again?

I decided I would do things differently. First of all, I’d put the “treat” in retreat. I bought myself all kinds of healthy food for the trip and packed my trusty teapot. I went to the library and checked out a bunch of “friends” in case the panic pressed in. I took the writing of Anne Lamott (always a great companion), and Gabrielle Bell’s graphic novel Lucky. I brought poems by Mary Oliver, who is as comfortable in nature as she is in her own skin. I brought my laptop and spiral notebook and good black pens—my beloved writing tools.

But more important than the soy yogurt and poetry and pens was the new willingness to be totally lonely. I wanted to face that feeling and see if it really was as scary as I was making it out to be.

When I got to Little Falls, the first thing I did was sit in the rocking chair by the stove and cry. I felt very far from home and everything familiar. The solitude was overwhelming. But I just sat there with those scary feelings and released myself into the loneliness. And after a while, I felt a little nudge inside.

"Why don't you make yourself dinner, darling?"

It's funny, because once I was really willing to be alone, I realized that I wasn't. All the many versions of myself—everybody’s got ‘em—had followed me to Little Falls. And I was finally quiet enough to listen to them.

"Look at the tiny kitchen. It's so cute, like a dollhouse kitchen or the kitchen on a ship."

"We're here to finish writing a story. Isn't that exciting?"

In the quiet, I could hear the nurturing part of myself. And the part that delights in being alone. I also gave audience to a part that I will call Eeyore.

“I probably won't get much writing done. Not that it matters," Eeyore announced.

"That's not true," said the positive voice known as Wonder Girl. "We have everything we need to do great work."

"Oh no! There's a dead cricket in the corner!" Eeyore cried.

Wonder Girl crouched beside the cricket. “He's just a little guy. Let's leave him here, and make him the official mascot of the retreat.”

Over the long weekend, I discovered that some aspects of myself make wonderful companions. It required feeling very lonely to get in touch with them. I am so glad that I was willing to go to that shadowy spot inside.

Of course, Eeyore is not the most pleasant company. But he's still a part of me and I must be kind to him. He was only allowed to “what if…” before dark. And when I was writing, I would ask him to please go out and search for his lost tail, so I could work in peace. But he was always invited back inside for a hot dinner.