Hedgebrook Writers Retreat Day Five

(Continuing a series of posts about the week I spent at Hedgebrook Writers Retreat for Women on Whidby Island off the coast of Washington in December 2012)

photo c/o Hedgebrook

At the Hedgebrook Womens Writers Retreat on Whidby Island off the coast of Washington, everything has been beautifully designed for comfort, privacy, inspiration and contemplation, from the cottages and gardens to the farmhouse and the landscaping.  

The cottages are handcrafted, each made from a different variety of wood, and each with one-of-a kind artisan touches. The Amish influence on the construction is evident in the open beams, use of wooden pegs, and hand-made furnishings. 

The kitchens are efficient, with a toaster oven, hotplate, and small refrigerator. There are enough pots and pans, dishes and silverware to                       accommodate one person easily. 

Every window offers a beautiful view of the surrounding forest. This one is from the window seat in the Willow Cottage, where I stayed.

 This is another view from a window.

I learned to build and maintain fires in the surprisingly efficient wood-burning stove. 

I took this photo of the woodpile because I knew my son in Finland would be impressed, as his home is heated by a large soapstone wood-burning stove, and he has learned the art of stacking wood. 

Each cottage has a half-bath. In the bathhouse are private showers, laundry facilities, and . . .  

 a deep, claw-footed tub, where one can enjoy a long candlelight bath in fragrant bath salts. 

Hand-crafted tiles and basin in the bathhouse. 

Though the kitchens are fully equipped, the dinner table, where wonderful food is served and warm conversations enjoyed, is in the farmhouse. Hedgebrook employ several terrific chefs. Produce, in season, comes from the garden (which had been put to rest in December, but is pictured at its height in the summer). Other food is supplied by local farmers. 

photo c/o Hedgebrook

A typical table set for writers in residence. 

photo c/o Hedgebrook

The queen-sized bed with handcrafted headboard is reached by a ladder.

If a guest doesn't want to brave the ladder, a bed can easily be made below the loft, under a bank of windows that offers yet another perspective. 

The stained-glass windows in my loft made me think of Monet's irises. The sound of rain on the roof was a wonderful accompaniment to waking and sleeping. 

photo c/o Hedgebrook

As seen from the loft, there is ample desk space below for the working author.

Bookcases allow for ample storage of an author's personal library, but I traveled light. The dictionary and thesaurus were sufficient, and the farmhouse has a good-sized library filled with books written by previous residents. 

On the path to the farmhouse, this open fire pit invites writers to spend a cozy evening in front of a bonfire. In December, we didn't choose to. 

Photo by Kate

I heard owls at night, and I also heard stories about them swooping over resident writers, encouraging some women to wear hats, but the only owl I saw was this carved one, which stands guard over the garden. 

Day Four at Hedgebrook: Getting Stuck

Getting stuck: There are many ways to get stuck in life. I'm currently stuck on a manuscript, 1/3 into the story. It will be fixed with a good outline and some clear thinking...

At Hedgebrook Writers Retreat on Whidbey Island (off the coast of  Washington), accommodations are available for people with mobility needs. Since my ankle can be unpredictable, especially on uneven surfaces, I decided to try the motorized scooter they keep on hand. It didn't have headlights, so at night, it was back to flashlights and walking (which caused no problems). But in the daylight, it was great on the bark/gravel paths beyond the cottages. So one day I decided to go exploring. Off the beaten path.There are so many beautiful walks you can take there. 

"All trails lead downhill," one of the staff said. Well, not exactly. Some are fairly flat. "You can't be lost for more than half an hour or so," she added. "You'll always find your way back to a familiar path." They didn't know who they were dealing with. 

Perhaps they should have given me a tracking device. You know, the kind criminals have to wear, or skiers who are going in to the back country where there is avalanche danger. The kind some parents are starting to put on their toddlers. 

Anyway, I was zipping along, loving the cool, damp air, and the beautiful forest, and exploring new territory. There were layers of fallen leaves in many areas, and before I realized it, I had driven onto some leaves that covered deep mud. And I got stuck. 

Oh, boy, I thought. Tried a bit of rocking, only got in deeper. Turned the wheels to the right, where the mud appeared to be less dense. No success. Tried to fill all the ruts with leaves to give the wheels some more traction. No luck. 

Then, on my way to find help, I decided to call my Finnish son because it was his birthday. I told him where I was, what I was doing, and that I'd managed to get a four-wheeler stuck in the mud. "They gave YOU a four-wheeler?" he asked, genuinely shocked. "Who put YOU on a four-wheeler?" 

Who knew he felt that way? What DO my children say about me when I'm not there?

"Well, it's not a real four-wheeler. It's just a motorized scooter I can use to spare my ankle," I said. 

"Oh." That seemed more acceptable to him. A "little-old-lady" 4-wheeled scooter. I could hear the relief in his voice. 

"Who put my Grandma on a four-wheeler?" 

 I found a gardener and we took off in a golf cart to find the stranded chair. "Happens all the time," she said. "Everyone's been stuck." I think she said that just to be nice. Anyway, we found the deserted scooter. Wish I'd taken a picture. I drove the golf cart back to the farmhouse and soon she appeared on the scooter. 

"You did everything right," she said cheerfully. "I got it out right away. I turned the wheels to the right, as you did, and then just threw all my weight forward and leaned to the right, and that was enough to get the wheels out of the mud." 

The scooter seemed untouched by the little adventure, other than a bit of mud on the tires,  and I wasn't any worse for the wear either, so the story had a happy ending. 

"Just another day at Hedgebrook," I'm sure the staff said.

A Day at Hedgebrook Part Three: The readings

Elizabeth and her wonderful Sunday Brunch offerings, including the apple-pear-cranberry tart 

After dinner at the farmhouse, we often adjourned to the library, a cozy book-lined room with a wood burning stove, to share what we'd written. Of the five women in residence last week, three  were working on memoirs; one focused more on her experiences in social work, another on homes and gardens and food, and the last on her mother's terrifying journey along the path of Alzheimer's. There was an eloquent poet who wrote about a recent grief and subsequent resolution. She and her two children are all poets and perform regularly in the Seattle area. Her daughter came for two days and performed some of her brilliant work. 

I shared some essays on family life, most of which were lighthearted. I'm not in a place where I have a lot of anger in my life, but for those who were, it was palpable and poignantly expressed. I like to think I lightened the mood a bit. I'm working on a novel, and I read some sections of it. I had questions about how to implement a particular point of view, and got some great and insightful suggestions. The environment was safe and intimate. Trust among women writers is something that is usually freely given and embraced. It's what I have found in several critique groups I've been in over the past ten years. And it's what I found at Hedgebrook. 

A Day at Hedgebrook Part Two: A metaphor- finding my way in the dark . . .

OK. I'm going to use a real metaphor: Finding my way in the dark at Hedgebrook. 

The day we arrived at Hedgebrook one of the staff members drove two of us and our luggage to our cottages in a golf cart. Taking in the beautiful surroundings, I did not pay attention to the route she took. And I did not realize that on Whidbey Island, 35 miles north of Seattle, darkness falls early on a December day. Add overcast skies (with very little assistance, therefore, from the moon or stars) to the conditions, and by 5:30, dinnertime, it is very, very dark. Chilly and dark. I had brought a flashlight, and another was provided in my cottage. So I struck out bravely, two flashlights in hand, thinking I'd be sure to happen upon the farmhouse; after all, our guide had said, if you find a gravel path and follow it downhill, that's where you'll end up finding yourself.

She obviously didn't know me.  

There are many paths at Hedgebrook. And some are quite level. Very little, except perhaps the garden, is laid out on any kind of grid. That is part of its charm. Each cottage feels private, but from my window I could view at least one other cottage, from its side or back; the illusion of absolute solitude is carefully preserved and cherished. If you should need a neighbor, you have one. (There is also an alarm button that, when pressed, will alert a security company, which will call Hedgebrook folk, and someone will come and find you in a hurry. And there's an air horn which one can use as a stopgap if necessary. I was tempted to try it just to hear the sound, but didn't want the resulting commotion, so I wisely left it alone.)

At Hedgebrook, meandering paths are covered with pine needles, leaves, and bark, and there are many different and circular ways to reach the woodpile or the pump room or the bath house (all close to my cabin but hidden in the trees) and the gravel path that leads to the farmhouse (a 5 minute walk). So on that first night, I set out bravely with my flashlight, wishing I had a walking GPS programmed to deliver me from here to there. 

Well. I finally did see, above the trees, the occasional light in the distance. Was that Useless Bay, a section of Puget Sound, which meant I was heading downhill, or was I completely turned around? I was not born with a sense of direction, and didn't think to bring a compass, so the light didn't offer me any answers. I kept on trudging, trying to judge if I was actually going downhill, and thinking that surely I would run into the farmhouse, perhaps by accident, and how far away was it? 

I saw another light, closer, this time, and with palpable relief I approached it. I thought of a sailor seeing the beam from a lighthouse, and I was that sailor. Was this even on Hedgebrook Property? Through the window I could see a woman who had to be a writer. I just knew it. As I got closer I realized it was a cottage, larger than mine, with a car parked in front of it. Beside the cottage was a retaining wall. I shone my flashlight onto the ground below it and estimated the length of the step I'd need to take to step down from the wall. 

Wrong. I went down with a crash - - - -well, as much of a crash as one could make on a relatively soft, spongy surface. Head, shoulder, hip, knee, all hit the ground, but miraculously, not the ankle! My right ankle is a part of my body that I protect very carefully. Two failed surgeries have left it less than fully functional; tears are evident in the tendons. It doesn't take much to twist it and feel the pain for days. But the ankle was spared. The shoulder, however . . . . well, let's just say I was very stiff and sore for a couple of days but that was all. Until today, I haven't told anyone about my fall. It wasn't important, though I kept reliving it in my mind for hours. Funny how the mind works. If anyone from Hedgebrook should happen to read this, I was not injured and I will not sue you. I am guilty of poor judgment and that is all. 

Back to the cabin and the writer(s) in it. I knocked at the door, quite shaken by my fall, but determined that no one would hear about it. After all, I was back on my feet and I was a self-sufficient woman. "I'm looking for the Hedgebrook Farmhouse," I said to the white-haired woman who opened the door. "Well, that's where we're headed!" she said, and ushered me in. The two women donned coats and shoes and grabbed flashlights and led the way to the farmhouse, which was just down the path.  . . . around the curve . . . over the wooden bridge and there it was, warmly beckoning us, a welcoming sight. 

The farmhouse in daylight. 

I wondered if I would find my way back to Willow Cottage after dinner (more on the food later), but we all struck out for our cottages at the same time after dinner, and I did know where my cottage was in relation to Owl, so when Owl's occupant said goodnight and headed toward her front door, I knew I would find Willow somewhere to the left, not too far away. With my trusty flashlights shining on the path in front of my feet (to watch for anything that could cause a misstep), I did indeed find my lovely cottage. 

Every night after that, I left nearly every light at Willow cottage blazing when I headed to the farmhouse in the darkness; it was a waste of precious electricity, but it was also the welcome light I needed to guide me home. 

Here's what Wikipedia says about metaphor:

This article is about the figure of speech. For other uses, see Metaphor (disambiguation).

A political cartoon from an 1894 Puck magazine by illustrator S.D. Ehrhart, shows a farm woman labeled "Democratic Party" sheltering from a tornado of political change.

A metaphor is a literary figure of speech that describes a subject by asserting that it is, on some point of comparison, the same as another otherwise unrelated object. Metaphor is a type of analogy and is closely related to other rhetoricalfigures of speech that achieve their effects via association, comparison or resemblance including allegory, hyperbole, and simile.

One of the most prominent examples of a metaphor in English literature is the All the world's a stage monologue fromAs You Like It:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances; — William Shakespeare, As You Like It, 2/7^[1]

This quote is a metaphor because the world is not literally a stage. By figuratively asserting that the world is a stage, Shakespeare uses the points of comparison between the world and a stage to convey an understanding about how the world works and the lives of the people within it.

The word "metaphor" was tossed around regularly by a couple of the writers last week, but I wasn't one of the verbal jugglers. I listened instead; my use of metaphor is often sadly lacking. Sometimes, and when it actually works best for me, it just happens. 

For example, I shared an essay, "Baking Day" with the women. It is by far the darkest piece I have ever written, and the only dark essay I shared all week. I can read it aloud without choking up now, as enough time has gone by that I can almost read it as someone else's work. The language is cut and dried and instructive as the story unfolds. But I could hear gasps and soft moans from my listeners, so I think it still has some impact. 

"Baking Day" came about during a writers' workshop I took with Sandra Jackson Opoku, at Writers@Work in Salt Lake City, about ten years ago. Our assignment for that evening was to take a short piece of our own and rewrite it. Re-order the chronology, or tell it from a different character's point of view, she suggested . . . whatever we  wanted to try. The point was to experiment. 

She had read us an essay by Jamaica Kinkaid, "Girl," which affected me profoundly. It is basically a "laundry list" or lecture that a mother delivers to her daughter. It starts innocently enough . . . this is how you iron a handkerchief, this is how you  prepare this or that dish . . . then the tone gradually changes. The mother notes that the daughter has reportedly misbehaved at mass. Finally we hear a response from the daughter, who protests, "No, Mama!" but is ignored. The list becomes uglier as it predicts what the girl will become when she grows up: a slut. 

How Kinkaid communicated that powerful piece in a "list" format made me think of a day that began in a routine way for me, as I was carefully following a recipe for a cake. In one unscripted moment, my world as I knew it fell apart. By the end of the day, my heart was changed forever. However, I put the cake in the oven, baked it and served it to our guests. 

I had never written about that day; I could never bring myself to do it. Why not describe it in the form of a recipe? That night "Baking Day" took form. I didn't do much editing; it is what it is, and recently took second place in a national essay/memoir contest. It can still elicit a "sucker punch" from a listener. 

I am proud of the piece and will never forget the lesson it taught me. So, yes, I do use metaphor, rather sparingly, and not always consciously. And now I realize I have used two: baking a day and finding my way in the dark. Oh, and the sailor and the lighthouse. Well, what do you know?

T

A day at Hedgebrook Part One

This is the very functional kitchen in the Willow Cottage, where I stayed. It was stocked with one plate, one bowl, two glasses, one mug, a small refrigerator, a hot plate, a teapot, a coffee press, and a toaster oven. In the cupboards were a few utensils, a wine cork, and towels. 

Every evening we'd carry our baskets down to the farmhouse (about a 5 minute walk down a gravel path) where we'd be fed a lovely organic meal. Then we'd stock up on breakfast items (all healthy, of course) and whatever the chef had prepared for the next day's lunch. Often it was soup and salad with artisan bread, with fruit and cheese. It isn't possible to go hungry at Hedgebrook. 

The cookie jar was never empty, and Johnnie's raisin cookies were to die for. 

Where I've been for a week . . .

Photo: Tom Marks

This wonderful cottage was my home for a week as I stayed at the Hedgebrook Women's Writers Retreat off Whidbey Island, north of Seattle. If I hadn't missed my husband, I'm not sure I would have come home . . . .