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."
We are not a critique group, but a community of women who have something to say and have not yet found the time, permission, or space to write. In the Circle, writing prompts and guided exercises tap your creative spirit in a mindful and intentional way. Conducted under the principles of Amherst Writers & Artists, all writing is treated as fiction, and you are not compelled to read aloud. Come claim your chair in the Circle; your stories are safe with us.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
9:00 to 9:30 a.m.: Gather
9:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.: Write and Reflect
Cost: $45.00
Drinks and Snacks Provided
To reserve your spot or get more information, email Amy Lyles Wilson at hamblett2@gmail.com.
Before I married my husband, there were two things I was hesitant to tell him. I didn’t see the need to mention that my collection of childhood stuffed animals would be accompanying us to our new home, or that I’d been known to waste more than one perfectly good Saturday watching Murder, She Wrote reruns. Those idiosyncrasies I assumed he could handle, even if he didn’t share my affection for teddy bears or Angela Lansbury. Read more here…
So I sat on the floor at the Animal Hospital of West Nashville on a rainy Thursday afternoon in February and rested my right hand on my dog’s shaved belly as she drew her last breath. I sang to her, yes I did. And I cried like a baby.
The vet had reported that Quay had cancer in her liver, spleen, and adrenal glands. Big words were used, with scary sounding illness names. Such phrases as “palliative care” and “quality of life” were uttered. Hanging on to her, I think, would have been selfish, and unfair to that precious mutt. But my how I miss her already, a mere 15 hours later, this dog who kept me company on many a lonely night when I was single; who traveled with my husband and me to our honeymoon at the beach; who curled herself up tight on my friend Sheri’s chest the night I was 400 miles away at the bedside of my dying father.
“She knew,” said Sheri, when I called to say my father was gone.
Quay shed sitting still, and I suspect we will be vacuuming up remnants of her dog hair for months to come. Part of me will be glad for the remembrance, I suppose, but most of me will just be sad. She was known to lick anything that stood still, her spotted tongue flicking out with reckless abandon. She was a fine example of unabashed canine love, and I had forgotten how much it hurts to lose a four-legged friend. A lot.
Quay’s heritage was unknown, the best guess being a mix of Lab, German Shepherd, and Chow. But her heart was never a mystery.
The doorbell has just rung, and for the first time in 15 years, there is no barking, no mad dash of clicking nails across the hardwoods.
Yesterday I saw the Twitter and Facebook posts about how Valentine’s Day is silly, unnecessary, an invention of Hallmark. One man said he was proud he and his wife didn’t celebrate the occasion. A woman allowed as how she wouldn’t succumb to such meaningless societal pressure. As for me and my house, we say bring it on.
I was a young woman who made it to one prom in high school and maybe two fraternity formals in college; a twentysomething who was in more weddings than she can remember; a thirtysomething who spent many nights listening to girlfriends complain about their boyfriends as I sat home alone; and a middle-aged goober who married (yes, for the first time) at age 41.
When those roses arrive at the doorstep every February 14, I’m thrilled. Taking them out of the box and arranging them in the crystal vase my husband and I received for a wedding gift makes me happy. Going to a “fancy” restaurant for dinner and savoring every bite brings me great satisfaction. Coming home to sit on the couch, stare at my flowers, and know I am loved by Precious resembles nothing less than joy to me.
I was single for a long time, and I knew how to do it well. I had long gotten over any stigma about not having a husband. I could repair my own toilet, eat alone in restaurants, and attend parties solo without so much as a second thought. I worked hard to be okay by myself, really okay, not just lip-service “I don’t need a man” okay. The kind of okay that allowed me to pursue my dreams all by my lonesome. The kind of okay that let me know I did not need a partner to be whole, and that I could leave my mark on the world without a mate.
I went on blind dates, as few and far between as they were; did online dating; attended relationship seminars for singles; whined to God. Invited people over for dinner, took up extracurricular activities, went to churches rumored to have lots of “young people.” Whatever the relationship advisors suggested, I tried. And then I accepted the reality that not every woman will marry, and that most will survive just fine. I promise.
So when I did fall in love and walk down the aisle, it was a gift. An unexpected pleasure.
Do Precious and I need Valentine’s Day to show our affection? No. We try to do that every day in how we care for one another. Preparing a favorite meal, going to Walgreen’s for cold medicine when one of us is sick, noticing a sadness. But nor do we apologize for buying cards, ordering flowers, and sharing a decadent dessert on a certain day in February. Call it consumerist nonsense if you must; we call it love.
And so today I looked at the scale in the doctor’s office and found out I weigh more than I have ever weighed in my life. Ever. For years now I have avoided the number, telling the nurse I didn’t want to know. I would take off my shoes and shut my eyes, waiting to hear her say, “Okay, you can step off now.” I’d make sure not to look down at my chart while talking with the doctor, so as to avoid glimpsing the truth. But today, in this year that marks my fiftieth birthday, I decided it was time to stop kidding myself: I’m overweight.
This is not a news flash for me, of course. I’ve known for a while now, even though I’ve managed to kid myself into thinking I look okay and feel pretty good. Neither of those things is true. Photographs show my full face, wide hips, and soft belly. My knees ache, I snore (Precious describes this, lovingly, as “fog horn like”), and my cravings lean more and more toward sugar and carbs.
One of my friends, a woman I met just three years ago but feel I have known for decades, lost 30 pounds on Weight Watchers. I thought she looked fine before, and she did. But now, she’s just about the best-looking sixty-something woman I know. And she’s way cool to boot. I would like to be her when I’m 63, that’s how fabulous she is. She says she was never driven by vanity; it was her creaky knees that made her lose weight. That’s the way it is for me, I think. I don’t seem to scare small children when I go to the mall, and Precious loves me as I am, about 20 pounds heavier than when we married in 2002. But now I make moaning noises when I get up from the couch, which isn’t often, because that’s become my favorite place to park myself. I complain about back pain, low energy, and blue moods. My cholesterol is through the roof. Can you say put down the cheese doodles?
Another friend says she lost weight by eating only on alternate Tuesdays, and yet another swears by the hCG diet, which seems to involve injections and possibly urine from pregnant women. As it is with most meaningful undertakings, I will have to find my own way to better health. I suspect my path will involve smaller portions and more workouts, but I’ll keep you posted.
In college, I thought I was too heavy. Pictures from those days make me teary-eyed with envy, as I see now that I was “normal” back then, back when I weighed 40 pounds less. Today, though, my weight is not the only thing I’m paying close attention to as I plod toward the big five-oh in August. I’ve taken up yoga, and I like how it’s putting me in touch with my body in new ways, making me aware of moves I didn’t even know were possible and affording me a sense of calm (thanks Hilary and ALIGN!) Also in my arsenal are a therapist (no website!), a personal trainer (thanks Stephanie!), and an acupuncturist (thanks Eden!). A supportive husband, a loyal dog, and plenty of women who have gone before me.
Amy Lyles Wilson, M.A., M.T.S. | Writer, Story Coach, Spiritual Director 