It is intimidating to have a second heart pull-up residence so close to your own. When I go out and into the world, it was first baby Zeplin, then followed by baby Demitri, and now baby Thatcher who were and now is attached to my hip. And I lovingly bring my baby boys along because we are now experiencing this life together, as a team. We have become a package deal...at least until he is no longer on a strict breastmilk straight-from-the-source diet.
Maybe he, also, will have a love for writing and it will have begun on that faithful Saturday morning.
As Mrs. Lee Zacharias, the instructor, instructed, those of us in attendance prepared ourselves to write. She had given us our two word choices, (see Writer's Workshop, Part 2 for more info.), and the room was quiet as we gathered our thoughts and clicked our pens into writing position.
As in all the best stories, it is this silence which escapes us as something, someone, has to fill it. This is something similar to Newton's "Law of Motion". Wikipedia tells me that there are three elements, or three physical laws, which, combined, form the law of motion. The third law reads like this:
When one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction on the first body. (Wikipedia)
It was during this pensive silence in which baby Thatcher, happy and full of cheer, decided to grace the room of us with his delightful baby grunts, gasps, giggles. The second heart of mine, his, so full of independence and joy, met the first heart, mine, with anxiety. What are the others thinking, I feared?
Just moments before I had chosen my word on which to write, the word here, and I knew almost as quickly that I would write from Thatcher's point-of-view. (See the paragraph I had written in Writer's Workshop, Part 2) With my first sentence in ink, I looked around the room and decided that it is in everyone's best interest (and Thatcher's and mine as well), that I ask and not assume if these noises were interfering with anyone's creative juices.
Almost drowned out with the resounding feedback of "no", and "he's delightful, no problem at all", was one voice. Loud and affirmative. His giggles were lost on her and she adamantly told me so.
We left the room.
As I stood and explained that we would be in the hall until he was less verbal, many of my acquaintances insisted we remain in the room. I felt that we had already bothered one (and possible more) member that day and that our best option was to enjoy one another in the hall where he could sing me his baby babble songs and I could finish my paragraph. And cry.
I hate that I cried. I hate that I felt weak and inferior, and that a small piece of me was upset with Thatcher for having had woke up. As if this were his fault. As if a baby of less than five months understood when to be still and when to be lively. Sorry, my sweet baby.
I was upset with myself for allowing one person's poor style of delivery to have placed a damper on my otherwise amazing morning. She could have said it nicer. Softer. But she didn't.
The tears eventually stopped and I was grateful that no one witnessed them firsthand. I could not help if my eyes were red upon returning. Graciously, no one asked questions. We did return to the room, about five or 10 more minutes until we were expected to be done. Thatcher and I swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, enjoying one another. He had given into a more relaxed, fatigue and surveyed the room through eyes half open.
One again, I was grateful that our seat was near the door. Our momentary escape.
His banter begot her to address the situation firmly and that, in return, begot me to tears. Is that not Newton's law exactly?
The workshop ended well and everyone else seemed cordial and even apologetic on her behalf. We left together, baby boy and I, having had survived our first writing workshop.
But then, I didn't desire that we simply survived...we deserved to have had thrived!
On the way to church the next morning, Big Strong Man and I talked about the workshop and he offered some unsolicited advice. Sometimes people just know when to speak.
Being retired military himself, he recalled a time he cried in the face of a nasty Superior who was yelling at him to do push-ups. Through his tears, he was made to contemplate how seriously he took the military. You don't really want to be here, do you Solider? Barked the Superior. You aren't made for this, are you Solider?
Yes, he stated, I do. Louder then, Yes! he declared, I am!
My Man told me that he had to rise above, and so did I.
He told me that the goal of the military was first to tear him down and later, to build him back up.
Something clicked in my heart and I knew that, regardless of other people, of situations, handicaps, and even myself, I do dream of writing! I am a writer!
I hope you have enjoyed my three part summary of the Writing Workshop I feel blessed to have had attended. Please check out Part 1 and Part 2 below.
-grateful,
Writer's Workshop, Part 1
Writer's Workshop, Part 2
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