Goodbye Ragdale

The hours have turned to minutes now. One by one each member of our tight community takes their leave. There are four of us left, scattered about the grounds taking advantage of every last moment, every last word we can eke out of our inner depths before being dragged back into the real world.

But right now, in this moment, the world still feels far away. Yes, the magnetic pull of to-do lists (laundry, dishes, emails) has pulled most away early. But I refuse to be distracted. I think I live my life in a constant state of distraction. There is so much to do and I can get so overwhelmed by having to do it all alone- I distract myself. With unnecessary chores or more often with mindless television.

It is not surprising that I have felt no inspiration to write in the past few months with the constant progression of television programs marching across my brain. There is no time or space for creativity. I can’t hear the voices inside of me that struggle to break free and live on paper. I can’t hear the fisherman on my shoulder, the gay basketball coach or the toxic dolls demanding their voice in the teddy bear uprising.

Okay, I know I have borrowed those characters from other writers here but I have found some of my own as well. My teenage girl with her deadbeat hookup and mother who betrayed her trust but deep down is so proud of her. My inner “kind of” poet who wants to bestow words of wisdom on her young daughter who brings her so much joy. And even my own inner voice struggling to figure out how I view God in the midst of a messy life.

Being here seems to have brought a universal confidence as well. Each person shared their writing – even the messy first drafts with each other and found laughter, tears and encouragement with each beautiful phrase, heartfelt dialogue and poignant description. Each person felt heard as their work was brought up again and again in conversations over dinner, in examples and in honest declarations of admiration. I can’t tell you how many people sought me out in the prairie, in the dining room, and on the lawn to say, “you are SUCH a good writer.” People have asked me how I do it, how do I find the words to write on the page in such a quick manner – coming out so polished. Which I find fascinating since I feel the same about each of them. Everyone here is a writer.

Everyone here has a voice uniquely their own and I have learned so much from each.

I have loved watching Anita read her stories about toxic dolls with such sheepishness and sending the entire group into fits of laughter – cracking herself up so much she can’t even finish.

Sophia struggling to find her confidence in her blog piece, and admitting her naivety at writing fiction – then breaking through to find her fisherman character that had been haunting her for so long.

I have learned from Lauren, the young adult novelist who moonlights as a burlesque dancer. Her freedom to announce things about her life that may offend others without any concern was freeing. It wasn’t that she was rebellious – she was just honestly comfortable with her choices and invited others to listen to her story. It didn’t even occur to her to be hesitant to share or that she would be judged – which beautifully she wasn’t. Not even a little bit.

Kim, the African American woman who had two gay men in her head that she was bringing to life on the page. Telling their love story with warmth and realism that was easy for anyone to relate to. Why gay men? She just likes the genre…who knew?
Alyssa, the theater artist who performs her writing with honesty and beauty. Each word from her mouth is rich and interesting and poignant and real.

Nancy who is a novice struggling to find her story. She so earnestly wants to be able to call herself a writer. So genuinely touched by an expression of “wow” after one of her stories that she cried. I think she found her inner writer after all.

Gina with her imaginary world and characters we all wanted to help find their father. Watching her discover new parts of their personality and voice with each new segment was like watching a girl open her presents at Christmas.

And so many more – each with their own place in our group. Each with their own lives and experiences and talent. Each accepting each other for who they are with no judgment. Only love and encouragement and respect for the craft. Where else does this type of community occur? I am sad to report that I haven’t found a place.

Twelve more minutes. Only twelve more minutes to take it all in and figure out a way to hold on to the magic in the busyness of my life. I fear that the magic will stay here – abandoned like a baby on the steps of the firehouse. Waiting for someone else to pick it up and call it their own.

The wind rustles the trees – with a strength yet to be seen this weekend. It is almost as if it is helping wake us up as the yogi does after the relaxation pose at the end of yoga. Wake up your toes, then your legs, then your arms. Wiggle your fingers.

The magic of Ragdale might just need to become part of my yearly rhythm. For even if I lose a touch of it as I walk off the grounds, I can easily fall back into it again next year.

Eight minutes…time to say goodbye. Like a child being left at daycare I want to stomp my feet and say NO – I won’t go. But of course I will. Not only because I don’t want to draw attention to myself by refusing to leave, but because I know that I will return.

Thank you, Ragdale. Thank you for helping me to fall in love with writing again. Thank you for providing me a space to belong. Thank you for the magic you bestowed on me and on each of us for this brief 48 hours. You will forever be counted as a friend.