Writing Through COVID-19

Like many people lucky enough to have a backyard during this time of pandemic, we’ve spent a lot of time working on the yard, creating space for the kids to run and play and take in the fresh air, get grounded in the earth. I’ve found this essential for myself as well, digging in the previously neglected raised beds, planting flowers and greens in the hope they will grow something new out of this time of desolation. I’m lost when it comes to gardening but, like many things during this season, have tried to embrace anything that offers potential for nourishment.

Usually for me that’s writing, taking pen to paper and letting myself discover what needs to be said. Lately though, I’ve been overwhelmed with ideas—for essays, for poems—but only fragments come out. I’m not sure if it’s the uncertainty of the time, or my life at this moment, or if it’s just there’s too much to write about, too much to process, too much to share. I’ve struggled to find creative space, both physically and emotionally.

Part of the backyard refresh, in addition to the basketball hoop, the dedicated fort-building trees, the shuffling of deck furniture, is a repurposing of a small shed. Cleared out of old bikes, shovels, cracked pots, and campfire wood, the whitewashed space now houses a seafoam writing desk and lilacs blooming at an opportune time. With this space, and the online offerings below, I find I’m emerging from a writing hibernation of sorts, finally having some urge to create.

During this time of pandemic, I’ve found so many generous spaces for writers to connect virtually. I’ve “met” with writers’ groups, both local friends well-known and those from all around the world. One thing I’m grateful for during this time is that many of the classes and gatherings I’ve longed to be a part of are now available via Zoom: Columbia University’s Narrative Medicine program has several offerings a week, Toronto’s Firefly Creative Writing has moved writing sessions online, Stanford’s Medicine and the Muse offers a weekly writing and sharing group that has been encouraging and approachable, Suleika Jaouad’s Isolation Journal email prompts have featured some of my favorite writers and thinkers.

I’m hoping to get back into a regular cadence of Narrative Medicine Monday posts and even Free Write Friday prompts, with a COVID-19 theme. But I’m also letting myself be fluid during this time, resting when I need to (anyone else find they just need naps in the middle of the afternoon no matter what the day holds?) and not demanding so much of myself—that I should be writing more or should be homeschooling in a certain way or should be innovating at work or should be anything other than what I need to be in this moment to move forward.

Here are some resources I’ve found that have provided writing community and encouragement to get pen to paper, finger to keyboard, soul to rest. Some are geared toward healthcare workers, but there are also opportunities for the general public looking for a creative space.

Be gentle with yourself, and those around you. May you find the space for rest and growth and the hope of creating something new.

The Isolation Journals: Author and speaker Suleika Jaouad will send you a daily thought and prompt from an inspiring writer, artist, person of note.

Firefly Creative Writing: Early morning (for us west coasters!) collective writing sessions, a prompt and 20 minutes to write together, to benefit small business rent relief.

Writing Medicine: Saturday morning time for healthcare workers and their families to write and share, led by Writer in Residence Laurel Braitman (who also has a wonderful TED talk on Storytelling and Writing) at Stanford’s Medicine and the Muse program.

Columbia Narrative Medicine: Virtual book club & narrative medicine writing sessions led by faculty and alums of the original program in the traditional style of close reading, discussion, writing, and sharing.

Hugo House Quarantine Write-in: One of many online offerings from this prolific Seattle writing community. Check out their classes, virtual happy hours, and other events too!

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Free Write Friday: Campsite

I like waking up in the tent, shadows from evergreen trees looming, voices from the adjacent campsite echoing as if through a tunnel, muffled and yet amplified. I took a nap, youngest child restless the night before, waking up in her crib every couple of hours whimpering, unable to articulate what was the matter. I sang to her from just above, hanging over the opening of the the Eurovan pop top, coaxing her back to sleep. “Shhhhhh,” I pleaded, “it’s sleepy time.” She’d suck her tiny thumb dutifully, nestle her chilled toes back under the blanket and fall into a temporary slumber.

We spent the morning on the trail, a 1.2 mile hike to the falls; unambitious I thought, but the way there all uphill elicited whining and necessitated cajoling and stops for snacks of peanut butter sandwiches since I couldn’t find the jelly. We carried the toddler in the hiking backpack, secured by straps, covered by sunshade. The other two discovered perfect walking sticks, treasured for a bit, then tossed aside in search of more appealing finds.

In the evening we ride our bikes around the campground, sampling different loops with unexplored hills and towering trees. Then we settle at the amphitheater for the kids’ ranger program. Khaki-clad speakers with wide brimmed hats talk about native wildlife, the history of the park, admonish about safety and recycling. We dissect owl pellets, we search for huckleberries and signs of animals scampering in the nearby bushes.

After s’mores we sit by the fire crackling. Does it cackle? The flames burst up from the pit, leaping to their destiny, unable to reach their desired height. Instead they are confined, sequestered. I look up to see the black outline of the trees, pine needles fuzzy against the dusky sky, bluing to black. The shadows are spooky and comforting. A paradox of sensibilities.

A gaggle of preteen girls stroll by our campsite, gossiping loudly. My husband remarks, ”That will be M soon.” A troupe, a pod. That’s how she’ll survive, how she’ll thrive or shrink, the passageway to adulthood. For now, this stage, she sleeps silently in the tent as we watch the embers flicker and pop, sip drinks, read books by the rising firelight.

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