Yesterday I sat down mid-afternoon, under a robin’s egg blue sky, gazing at the treetops beginning to turn yellow and red. I picked up my book and started to read. Immediately I thought, “I’m reading in the middle of the afternoon? I really should get back to work.” Then I remembered, there was no work. Or perhaps better stated, this was my work. Relaxing, reading, enjoying the scenery. Writing when I want to. Watching the orange monarch butterflies flit past, drinking their fill. Just like them, I am here to feed my heart on this mountain.
I started writing my book, Flashback Girl, in 2017. I wrote in the mornings before work, on weekends, and in between clients. It took a year. After that, I queried agents, and submitted to publishers, and began speaking gigs. I developed an author website, posted on social media, and started a blog, all efforts to connect with readers.
When my book was rejected by traditional publishers, I set off to self-publish, hiring editors and designers and teaching myself the business of publishing. Finally, when the book came out, I did four months straight of publicity.
These efforts succeeded beyond my dreams and has led to my current life. I treat psychotherapy clients four days a week. The rest of the time, I prepare for presentations, write articles and blogs, book travel for the next presentation, keep up on social media, and apply for new opportunities. Oh right, and I am also a wife, mother, dog mother, and devoted friend.
I’m exhausted.
Last year, I learned about artists residencies, where people come to concentrate solely on their art. What an idea! What heaven! I applied and was granted this one, a blissful two week stay at Craigardan, in the New York Adirondack State Park.
Craigardan sits on over 300 acres of protected land, in the middle of the Adirondack State Park. They have plans to build permanent structures, but currently, it’s more like glamping. We each (six artists in all) have a private but plain wooden cabin, furnished with a single bed, a clothes rack, a bedside table, a chair, and a larger table for writing. The bathrooms are a few steps outside, creating some anxiety for those of us who contemplate nighttime urination. The kitchen is a walk across the meadow.
You might think this sounds a bit rustic for a woman of my age, formerly seen in luxurious trips to Antartica and the Norwegian Fyords. However, no fear! Whatever we have experienced in our youth remains endlessly familiar, and in my youth, I went to camp for five summers at Birch Farm.
Birch Farm was a horse camp for girls, nestled in the same Adirondack Mountains. We lived in cabins, only slightly bigger than my current abode. The bathroom was just up the hill, and we walked to it with flashlights at night, just as I did last night.
It was a small camp, just 20 girls in all, and there were never actually 20 girls, as far as I can remember. We had three bunk houses: Bunk Low, Bunk High, and Bunk Very High. Each bunk had the same rough pine walls that now line my cabin.
We went to Garnet Lake every afternoon and took riding, tennis and swimming lessons every morning. I learned to ride pretty well, failed hardily at tennis, and won “Most Improved” in swimming. That wasn’t too hard, because I started out as the worst swimmer but kept… improving. We sang on car rides. We read at the lake. We shared packs of gum with our bunkmates. At night we played Kick the Can and Hide and Seek.
The cabin walls are the same. The woods are the same. The sky is the same. The stars are the same. The crows are the same. The butterflies are the same. Instead of horses, we have chickens, sheep, pigs, and one black cat. Instead of horse-crazy girls, I am with fellow crazy women artists.
Surrounded by beauty and an open expanse of time, my internal clock struggles to adjust. This morning, I woke up to a sparkling blue sky, with a few wispy pink cirrus clouds sprinkled in. I walked to the kitchen area for coffee, gazing at the beauty all around. But my internal alarm began clanging, “What do I need to do today? How should I make best use of this time?”
I thought for a minute. What was the day’s schedule again? There was something on it, I remembered, something in the morning.
“Well, we are walking to feed the pigs at 9:00.”
The ridiculousness of my internal reply left me giggling alone in the kitchen. I washed up, my morning routine shockingly abbreviated by not giving a hoot how I look. Then I did my morning cleanup, which consisted of sweeping out my private cabin, which is about 7 by 14 feet. That took 4 minutes. Then I was ready for the pigs.
Time stretches here. When I leave my cabin, I tilt my head back to see the broad expanse of blue sky, uninterrupted by building or phone lines. We all took a walk yesterday, huffing our way up a steep slope, balancing on granite stones. We came to a brook, wooded on both sides, with a downed tree limb, perfect for perching. I am the oldest artist here, so I was happy to sit, watching the younger women scamper on the rocks in the brook. One woman leapt from stone to stone like a gazelle. Another sang a song about rivers.
When we are not together, each is off working or resting. Four of us are writers and poets, revising, or writing, or working on submissions. One woman makes living art in the woods, creating patterns with moss, leaves and flowers. Each afternoon, we trample off to discover what she had created that day. Another artist knits sunset-hued scarves out of yarn she has spun.
Our conversation is remarkably free from pretense. At night we talk about psychedelic medicines, witchcraft, home schooling, transphobia, Christianity, love, and hatred.
I will write this week; I already have. I also have other plans. For two weeks, I hope to feel my stomach relax, to have my shoulders lie in repose, and to read at leisure. I hope to watch the trees turn bright orange, red and yellow. I hope to take long walks among the feathery ferns, crisp leaves and birch trees. I hope to laugh and enjoy dinners with my fellow artists. Our singing, knitting artist teaches us songs before supper. Another woman prepares nightly poems for us to recite before we eat. Last night, another woman shared her exquisite box of chocolates, each piece a confectionery gem.
It’s a little different from horse camp, (singing on car rides, reading at the lake, and sharing gum), but also… not that different at all.
Lise Deguire's multiple award-winning memoir, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor, is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Newtown Book Shop and The Commonplace Reader. Check out her TEDx talk "Scarred Not Scary"
How lovely! Enjoy the peace each day gives you. The real world is not so kind these days.
Claudia Jeanmaire (Elise’s mom)
All that and exquisite chocolates too. Heaven. Enjoy.