A prompt & a pearl: Week 14
With a reflection on how yesterday I was reminded of why this work on the mother wound continues to be the nucleus of my writing & teaching
Last night I read an excerpt of my essay “Epistle for Edenia” during the launch of AGNI 99. Earlier in the day I randomly got a bad headache while cleaning. So bad, I had to lie down. It had calmed by the time of the event, so I didn’t think they were related.
Then, as writer and editor Jennifer De Leon introduced me, giving stunning remarks on who I am and how I show up in the writing world, I felt my chest and eyes well. I read the first three sections of my essay like that, on the verge of sobs. I had to cut my camera off immediately after to breathe.
By the time the event was over, the headache was back and had moved to the back of my skull. That’s when I knew.
This is how much this work means to me, how I carry its weight in my body, how it manifests when I have to climb out of my sacred hole of solitude where I’m working quietly, slowly, diligently, to write this book my mother left me in charge of.
There’s been silence from my family, which is its own mindfuck, but they were never interested in my writing before so… Whatever the case, I know for certain that I have to, that I will write this book. An Epistle for Edenia is just an excerpt of the first chapter.
When I created Writing the Mother Wound, it started as something I needed. It turned into something I knew other people needed.
I’ve gotten a lot of shit for doing this work. Even my mother acted out, which of course added to the shock when I discovered she’d left all her writing to me, with specific instructions: “para que Vanessa escriba un libro.”
I’ve also gotten a lot of support. Thank you, my loves. Thank you.
As Mother’s Day approaches, I feel that halo of pain around my head and heart. I’ve been writing reflections on this for years. Last year, I posted it on this very newsletter, titling it “Mother's Day for the Motherless." A few years back, Raising Mothers published one of my essays titled “Writing the Mother Wound, Unmothered”(their title, not mine) where I share excerpts of my Mother’s Day reflections from over the years, one as far back as 2015.
Now that my mother is gone, I have been fretting this day for weeks now. I know I’m not the only one. That’s why I decided to have a one day, online Mother’s Day edition of the Writing Mother Wound course.
Whether your mother has passed or is alive, if you have a charged relationship with your mother, you must know that you are not the only one. I created this class in 2017 for us. I am offering this one day class for us, too.
Would you help me spread the word, mi gente?
If you know anyone who needs this class, please send them the info.
If you or someone you know wants to take the class but can’t afford the $75 tuition, I have a few partial scholarships available. If you’d like to help me fund more scholarships, that would be wonderful too!
If you have a scheduling conflict and would like access to the recording, we can figure that out too.
When: May 4th, 12-3pm ET via Zoom
Where: via Zoom
How much: $75
To register, ask questions and/or get more info, email me at: writingourlivesworkshop@gmail.com.
All this inspired this next prompt & pearl…
The Prompt
Write about past Mother’s Days. How have you celebrated (and/or avoided) this day in the past? Can you remember happy memories of this day, including the pastel colored suits and balloons? What makes this memory a good one? Can you remember bad memories of this day? What makes this memory a bad one? How do you hope or plan to celebrate Mama’s Day this year? Or do you plan to avoid it altogether? How and why?
The Pearl
There are times when I can feel the story stirring in my body, making me sweat, my heart race, my hands sweat, my eyes tear, my head hurt. This is when I know I am on to something. If this happens to you too, this probably means you are also on to something.
Listen to your body. Write from those places that are being riled during the writing. Write about what’s happening to your body and what is giving it this visceral response. And please please please, be gentle with yourself. Give yourself breaks. Go outside. Take a walk. Put your hands in soil. Hug a tree. Do something kind for yourself. Say a prayer, if that’s your thing. Call a friend to share and ask them to hold space. You’ve tapped into something profound. That’s what’s causing the reaction. Chances are you’re also touching on something that can retraumatize you. Take your time with this. If you’re like me, this last sentence made you roll your eyes. I don’t want to take my time either. I want to get this done, but art doesn’t work like that.
I’ll share a bit of sage advice my wife gave me recently when I was moaning and complaining about how long this book has and still is taking me. She said: “You wrote the core of the book. Now you’re adding layers like the rings on a tree. That takes time. Each ring is a year.”
Art takes time. Give it and yourself the time it needs.
Los quiero mucho,
Vanessa