I help people tell the stories they are called to tell through offering a variety of creative and spiritual practices. I facilitate workshops and retreats on such topics as creativity, grief, and spirituality. Published writer and experienced editor. Degrees in English, journalism, and theology. Lover of dogs, coffee, and all things wordsmith-y. Trained in Narrative Healthcare, Amherst Writers & Artists, Spiritual Direction, and SoulCollage®. "It's the sharing of our stories that saves us."
Twenty-one years ago, the weather in Oxford, Mississippi—where I was married—was like it is this early morning in Nashville, Tennessee—the city I call home. Clear sky and slight breeze. Not as hot as one might fear for a June wedding in the Deep South. Back then I was preparing to walk down the aisle, a forty-something goober who had convinced herself she would never know what it meant to be loved for the long haul by a man. Today I am looking forward to dinner and a movie.
We first met when I was in college, and he was just out of law school. Reconnecting some twenty years later at my father’s funeral, we married the next year in the same church in which my parents had tied the knot in 1948.
I’m always curious why people, when writing or talking about their marriages, feel the need to say, “It hasn’t always been perfect,” or “We’ve had our ups and downs.” Because, well, life. If you were to tell me you’ve never had one upset or a single challenge in your time as a couple, I wouldn’t believe—or trust—you.
My husband and I do not have glamorous plans for this anniversary. We will not board a plane to Paris or exchange expensive gifts. He will send me roses. Tonight, we will see a movie and have dinner at a restaurant we’ve been wanting to try. It is enough. And we are grateful.
North Carolina at Its Finest, photo by Amy-Lyles Wilson
I’ve been lugging around a memoir about my father’s death for some fifteen, er, twenty years now. I used to think it was in pretty good shape, but I’ve come to realize how much work it needs to go beyond being a sweet story about a middle-aged woman losing the first man she adored. The old personal-universal conundrum. I at least want it to be broader than one sad daughter surviving her grief and going on to meet another man she could adore: the one she married when she was six weeks shy of her forty-first birthday, some two years after burying her father in St. Peter’s Cemetery in Oxford, Mississippi.
Yes, it’s my first marriage.
One of the ways I’m going to rework the manuscript is by paying more attention to scene setting. Most of the action occurs throughout Mississippi, with stops in Lake Junaluska, North Carolina; Fort Morgan, Alabama; Richmond, Indiana; and Chautauqua, New York. I’m familiar enough with those particular environments that I forgot readers won’t necessarily be right alongside me. I made assumptions with abandon, glossed over facets that need to be detailed, and referred only in passing to historical happenings if I noted them at all. I tossed around neighborhoods and restaurants, street names and landmarks, without much concern for whether readers would catch on. Funny, that, as one thing that bugs me when I read British mysteries, for example, is that I sometimes feel I need a key in the back of the book to understand some of the phrasings and references.
In my writing workshops, many times I’ll focus on a theme or approach that I’m curious about myself. So, in April my Fellow Pilgrims and I read about, learned about, and wrote about place. As it was Earth Day, we also spent time trying out ways we might use nature as a character to go beyond merely noting the weather.
By the end of our time together we had written haikus about trees, relied on nature to prompt childhood memories (wait until you hear the one about my sister driving our parents’ blue Delta 88 into a magnolia tree in the backyard), and committed to going deeper when it comes to setting scenes in our work, regardless of genre.
For the past several years, MayBelle and one of her dearest friends in the world have gathered on the Winter Solstice to unburden themselves of what they need to let go of from the preceding year, and offer up what they dream about for the 365 days ahead of them. Her friend, having gone to sleep-away camp many more years than MayBelle, gets a fire going in the fire pit in her backyard, and they each take turns adding twigs and small pieces of wood to keep it glowing. Throughout the year they’ve written words and phrases—maybe a few paragraphs if the topic is something especially hairy—on small bits of paper, which they can read aloud if they so choose before adding them to the flames. The two—who’ve been through a whole lot of life together—then sit in silence and inhale the smoke. Go where the Spirit takes them. They are the kind of friends who can do that, sit without speaking.
Who knows what each of them is thinking?
As for MayBelle, she was happy to let go of an awkward encounter or two and an especially regrettable misunderstanding. A few grammatically incorrect phrases. The calls she didn’t make. The notes she meant to send. For good measure, she burned up some shame, a few 2022 resolutions that never took hold, and a ream of unnecessary worry. On the upside, she’s looking forward to crafting some well-placed words, banging on her new hand drum, and helping people share their stories, her favorite thing. Reduced to ash, she trusts, are the need for approval, the cravings for carbs, and the constant questioning of enough-ness.
There is usually a poem (or two) involved in the friends’ ritual. This year they read Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Burning the Old Year.”
As they say goodbye to their worries, regrets, and burdens, they also give thanks. As they utter aloud their goals for the future, they give thanks. For what was, and what will be. There might be a few tears, and always some words of encouragement and congratulations for having made it through another year mostly intact. Always there is warmth, and wonder, and hope.
What rituals do you have for transitioning into a new year?
At a social gathering over the weekend, in which MayBelle was not, by a long shot, the oldest person in the room, she was asked this question:
“What did you do in your former life?”
Granted, the questioner appeared to be younger than MayBelle, maybe even by fifteen years or so if she were to speculate. MayBelle was taken aback, which is not her favored position. Quickly she realized the woman assumed she was retired. Or capable of having past lives, maybe living in alternate universes.
“I’m still living that life,” said MayBelle, who is pretty good at thinking on her feet, even if those feet are clad in sensible, low-heeled shoes these days. MayBelle is not exactly sure what she meant by that response, but she was trying to give as good as she got. Quite frankly, she found the question well, rude. And misguided.
As MayBelle began to talk about her work in the world, what gives her life, she could see that the questioner was not really all that interested. Just as MayBelle was getting to the good stuff, the part about her belief that it’s the sharing of our stories that saves us, the woman zoned out. Maybe she was looking for someone who had a more scintillating former life.
The encounter reminded MayBelle how important it is not to make assumptions about people. She’s guilty of it herself, although she tries to be careful. More often than not, whenMayBelle has made assumptions, she’s been wrong. And MayBelle hates to be wrong.
MayBelle has not been one, usually, to adopt the “word for a year” practice that has been prevalent on social media for several years now. She likes to avoid fads and trends and the like. But this year she’s in, and her word is “No.” (With all due respect to Shonda Rhimes and her “Year of Yes.”)
When she mentioned this to her church’s women’s group this morning, via Zoom, someone asked if she meant “know.”
“No,” she responded, already practicing her Word for 2022. Woot! This is partly because she is, more often than not, so hungry for knowledge, so sure she can “figure things out,” that she misses the point entirely. So now she’s trying to know less and trust more. (This is not a new theme for MayBelle, so if you’ve heard it all before, please accept her apologies.)
For MayBelle, this will mean saying “No” to*:
Buying items she doesn’t need. MayBelle sometimes use shopping as a coping mechanism when she’s feeling sad, lonely . . . insert challenging emotion here _________. (She should also add “Eating my emotions” to the list, but let’s tackle one challenge at a time, shall we?) Practice Run: “I really do have enough scarves, even if that particular shade of mauve is stunning. And Fair Trade. And on sale. And probably the only one available in the world.”
Taking on work projects that don’t suit MayBelle’s schedule or professional goals. (MayBelle is self-employed and lucky to have the luxury of choice.) Because she likes to be needed/sought after/appreciated, MayBelle has more than once signed on for a project that was much more draining than fulfilling. She realizes, of course, that not every task related to her professional life will be fun-tastic, but she’s aiming for equilibrium. (Yay for MayBelle! She’s a Four on the Enneagram and balance is sometimes a challenge for those folks.) Practice Run: “I applaud you for wanting to write a book about the history of foot powder, but I’m probably not the best editor for you.”
Hanging out with folks who don’t want to grow, develop, create, question, wonder, connect, forgive, appreciate . . . insert life-giving practice here ______________. MayBelle realizes there are times when we need to complain and wring our hands, so it’s the people who always adopt such an approach, the ones who don’t even seem to consider there might be another way, that she’s thinking of here. Practice Run: “I respect your right to be so critical, dismissive, and convinced there is only dark in the world. While you’re doing that, I’ll be over here in the sunshine.”
Thinking she should be able to solve the problems of every single person she encounters. That sounds more grandiose than she’d like, seeing as MayBelle is actually a pretty humble sort, but she has, in the past, inserted herself where she didn’t belong–it was not hers to do, in other words– thinking she could rescue someone/mend a rift/correct an injustice. Practice Run: “I’m sorry you’re experiencing such a hard time. I hope you can find your way to a place of peace. I am happy to pray for you if you like.”
We’ll see how it goes. So far, MayBelle hasn’t bought anything she doesn’t need, eaten more than one serving, or offered to finance someone’s sketchy start up, some three days in to the New Year. It’s a start.
Amy Lyles Wilson, M.A., M.T.S. | Writer, Story Coach, Spiritual Director 