As I packed to come home from Anam
Cara, a writer’s and artist’s retreat in the Irish countryside, I found myself
struggling to put everything back the way it was. My hiking boots, my warm pjs,
my umbrella, my neatly folded clothes not so tidy anymore, a book I never had
time to read at home, the bookmark now 200 pages in. I had to lean my entire
being on that suitcase to get it to shut. That’s when I realized nothing fit
how it did before I left.
And if that’s not a metaphor for my
time there, I don’t know what is.
My friend and poet, Reagan, told me
about Anam Cara last year when we were discussing writing retreats. My initial
thought was simple – there are plenty of writing workshops in SoCal, most of
them in locations people told me were lovely. But when Reagan mentioned Anam
Cara, a place she’d been wanting to go for over a decade, I immediately said
yes.
How could I not? The website
featured pictures of lush landscapes, rushing falls, misty mountains, and a
large home inviting you to nestle into one of its inspiring nooks. The featured
articles and comments from writers in residence all described a peaceful
getaway, meant to erase the chaos of everyday life so you can hear the inner
voice that’s become buried under ambient noise. And that’s no exaggeration - the
name Anam Cara literally means “soul friend.”
But I had no expectations as I
packed for the trip the night before. I didn’t get out of work until 11 pm,
through an unexpected (but not unusual) situation at the ad agency where I’m a
proofreader. With all the same hustle and bustle, it hadn’t hit me that I’d be
traveling 10 hours across the ocean to a country I’d never been to. Not only
that, it was the first time in a decade I was doing a week-long trip without my
boyfriend. I just didn’t have time to process any of it, as I finally collapsed
into bed at 2 a.m.
The next day, Reagan and her
husband picked me up after my shortened shift at the office, and at the
beginning of rush hour we slogged through the usual traffic to LAX. But we
reached the terminal with plenty of time to relax, have dinner, and chat before
the flight into Dublin. We arrived in their afternoon (being 8 hours ahead),
and took a 30 minute taxi ride to the train station to catch our next 2 ½ hour leg
of the trip south to Cork. A few miles outside the city is when we caught our
first glimpse of the vast countryside, thick bushes splitting the grass into
squares of good eatin’ for the farm animals. It was drizzly and cool, enough to
need my sweatshirt. That’s when I realized – Ireland was my climate. My New
England senses tingled with joy, having left the sweltering September
temperatures behind.
By the time we got to Cork, my
stomach was ready for dinner. We took a short taxi ride to our AirBnB house,
where our most gracious host, Ann, brought us to our room. I was looking
forward to ending the 30-plus hours I’d been awake since leaving LA. She drove
us to the downtown area near their house with plenty of restaurants, and we
chose a cute Italian place (I know, I know, Italian food in Ireland? Hey, we
were there for a week – plenty of time). The next morning, Ann had a small
spread laid out for breakfast, which was a great way to start our first full
day in Ireland. Then she drove us to the Cork Airport to pick up the rental
car.
And as we chatted and joked with
the guy from Hertz, I realized something else. Ireland was my people: open,
helpful, friendly in an honest way, dry or dark sense of humor. And they not
only got my sarcasm, they returned it. It was one of the few times where I came
across all kinds of strangers and felt I could be myself. I can’t tell you how
many times in SoCal I’ve had to say, “I was kidding.” In Ireland it was understood.
Anyway, Reagan and I jammed our
bags into the economy-sized Kia Picanto (her one bag took up the trunk and mine
took up the backseat) and we were on our way down the left side of the road.
Reagan checked that off her bucket list sitting in the driver’s seat, allowing
me to take pictures of the ridiculously dazzling scenery. And I say ridiculous
because there’s no other word to describe it. Every time we stopped along the
side of the road, we would gasp at the stunning landscape and say the same
thing: “Wow. Look at this. I don’t know what to do with this. Even my camera doesn’t
have the capacity to capture this idyllic nature.” It was crazy.
One of the fun things about driving
those narrow country roads was that it brought the two of us back to our
respective home states: Reagan from Tennessee and me from Massachusetts. Back east
there are plenty of long winding streets with woods on both sides, where you
can’t tell what’s coming around the bend. Another huge difference from SoCal,
where you can see everything ahead of you. I find it confusing at times. In Ireland,
once you were out of the city, there were only a couple ways to go. And the
overhang of tree branches created a natural tunnel to lead you where you needed
to be.
And that was a good thing, because
we didn’t exactly have an address for the retreat. On the website, it said Anam
Cara was 4.5 miles from Castletownebere and a half mile from Eyeries. No street
address, with directions that said “150 yards west of the cross (intersection)
of R571 and R575 on the northern coast of the Beara Peninsula.” Now, again, my
Western Mass sense of direction was used to this kind of description – our
directions often involved things like gas stations on the corner or big red
barns as landmarks. But we couldn’t exactly put that in the GPS. So we put in Eyeries
and figured we would ask someone when we got there.
Sure enough, it worked out fine. We
found a tavern in Eyeries where we had lunch, and they pointed us to the
retreat up the road we had just passed. Going back the way we came, we found
the intersection which led us through farmland and next to a small cemetery on
a hill. Across from that sat a stone wall with the sign “Anam Cara.” We parked
in the small dirt lot in front of tall bushes that led you to the front door, with
a sign that prompted us to enter quietly, as working hours were in progress.
Our retreat host, Sue, greeted us,
along with Michael, who cooked and helped out on a part-time basis. He brought
in our bags and we met the other two women staying there: Jen and Suzanne. Jen
was there for the rest of the week, while Suzanne left on Wednesday. But two
other women joined the crew that same Wednesday, Cathy and Trudy, who would be
there for the rest of our stay.
Anyway, Sue discussed the rules
with us which were quite simple: quiet hours started after breakfast, lasted
until lunch at 2, and then began again until dinner at 7. We ate all our meals
together, which were cooked for us, and we weren’t allowed to help with
anything. Sue mentioned that was usually the toughest rule to follow,
especially for women who would often (automatically) offer to help. You weren’t
to disturb the other writers, and if you wanted to have a conversation, there
were places besides your room where you could shut the door. She also gave us
the lay of the land, which she had drawn out in packets left in our rooms. And
there was so much more than what I mentioned from the website: a meditation
garden, a labyrinth, a duck pond, dozens of walking paths with benches, the rocky beach
(which they called the Strand), and a stone ruin of a mill. I
couldn’t wait to go exploring.
After our chat, Reagan and I parted
ways to check out our rooms. Hers was on the other side of the house while mine,
called the Seaview Room, was near the front door. The bed had six pillows of different sizes
and a heavy comforter, making it the perfect combination for reading in bed. And
there was a bureau, a bookcase, and the writing desk in front of the window. I
had a great office view for my new job that week: working on whatever I wanted.
That first day was unpacking and
checking out the grounds a bit, while thinking of how I wanted to approach my
current project. I’m writing my second novel, a women’s fiction/comedy, but had
been struggling with it for a few months before the trip. After my dad’s death
last August, it was difficult to get back to writing a funny story. In fact, I
found myself thinking about him more and more over the next couple of days, and
how much he would’ve loved hearing about my first writing retreat. He was a
high school English teacher, and one of my biggest supporters, so all of our
conversations turned to writing. We were very much kindred spirits in that way,
and I lost a part of myself when he died.
That Monday, after a walk down these
stairs that I swear were lifted from the Shire, I hung out at the falls for a
while. Listening to the rushing water in the middle of the woods brought me
back to my parents’ place, where I fell asleep most nights to the rhythm of the
river that ran behind the house. I went down to the falls originally thinking
about the last chapter I had written, and did come up with a conversation that
solved a problem. But by the time I got back to the house, my dad was all I
could think about. With no place to be, no job to get to, and no errands to
run, my tears suddenly had no reason to hide. I cried for the rest of the
afternoon.
The next day, the Irish rain coated
the green palette outside my window (who knew there were so many different hues
of green?). Since I had brought a water resistant coat and hiking boots, I
decided to do something I hadn’t done in years – go walking in the rain. There
just weren’t that many opportunities to do that in SoCal, and I was excited to
walk down to Eyeries to mail a postcard done by a local photographer. Having
been there for lunch, I was looking forward to checking out the brightly
colored homes and businesses.
By the time I got back, I was ready
for some hot tea and a nap. And what a glorious nap it was, since I couldn’t
remember the last time I had one! Feeling reinvigorated, I sat down and wrote
the end to that difficult chapter. And as I sat back, satisfied with what I had
done, I looked outside and thought, “God, I miss the rain.” So I began writing
a poem with that as its first line. Initially, I was planning on writing
something about missing the seasons; but it slowly turned into me having a
conversation with my dad on how much I missed him. I was crying again, but this
time it grew out of actually processing what I was feeling. It was something I
needed to put down on paper – I just didn’t know it until then.
That night, we discussed sharing
our writing after dinner. I mentioned the poem I had written and everyone
encouraged me to read it. After eating, we gathered in the “nest” (the room
under the loft) and settled into the couches and chairs. Sue told us she had
one rule pertaining to sharing in her house – the reader was never allowed to denigrate
or preemptively apologize for their own work. Not only was it insulting to your
own writing, but it was insulting to those who would be listening to it. She
offered the example of someone who began their reading by saying, “I know this
is terrible, but I want to make you sit and listen to it anyway.” And the
retreat was a safe place to explore different styles and ideas, only allowing constructive
criticism.
Reagan read three of
her poems, and Jen followed with a few lines she had written that day after
spending some time in the cemetery. Suzanne read a short story she had been
working on, and I ended with the poem for my dad and a chapter from my current
novel. All pieces of writing were well received, and Sue offered some editorial
comments (having worked as an editor for places such as the Cambridge
University Press). I love share sessions, especially when writing a comedy, as
you get instant feedback and reactions to the things people find funny. Writing
is a solitary and isolating task, which is why I think these kinds of open
sessions are so important.
After breakfast the next morning, we greeted
the new writers in residence, Cathy and Trudy, who had been friends for many
years. I walked down to the Strand with them and explored the area around Anam
Cara, and then we all relaxed in a small general store in Eyeries. We walked
through the yellow church on the corner (a staple landmark in the directions to
the post office) and got back to the retreat in the afternoon. I took another wonderful
nap before lunch, and after eating, got straight into editing some of the
earlier chapters of my book. Having a renewed sense of energy helped me to look
at them through fresh eyes.
And that kind of excitement carried
through writing a couple new chapters as well. The feeling of being stuck had completely
disappeared, replaced by enthusiasm and a readiness to get back to work. My
last three days at Anam Cara were the most productive I had been with my
writing in months. It was the first time in almost a decade I didn’t have to
figure out how to “fit” writing into my day. In 2008 I took two weeks off from
my job to visit my boyfriend, who was working at JPL for the summer, and I was
able to start my first book. I had written seven chapters by the time I left,
having found the momentum I needed to get through it after I got home. Anam
Cara was exactly that for my second one.
But it wasn’t just the location –
it was also the people. We held a writer’s workshop in Castletownebere for
Culture Night where we met the event coordinator, a songwriter, and a woman who
had lived all over the world and just returned to her hometown. Sue introduced
us to Irish storyteller Teddy Black, a seanachai (bearer of old lore) who had us
in stitches the entire five-minute conversation. Hanging out at MacCarthy’s
Pub, having a half pint of Guinness, we talked to two women who had just
returned from biking all over Europe. And I loved hanging out with other
writers, talking about our struggles, discussing everything from current events
to our daily lives. It reminded me of college, sitting in the lounge discussing
literature and authors, coming up with poems that started out silly but ended
poignant and true. Those were the days I fell in love with being a writer, and
everyone at Anam Cara reminded me that was still the case.
And now that I’m back home, I have to
find a way to channel that energy. Here, among the full-time job, numerous
errands, a calendar full of appointments and events and writing groups, a
desire to keep up with the exercise, and spending time with those I care about.
I’m back to having to “fit” writing into my life, after seeing that not
everyone lives this kind of hectic lifestyle. There is another way – it’s all about
figuring out how to achieve it.
It’s ironic. The book I’m writing
is about a college graduate having trouble finding a job. At school, she was an
ace student with a bright future wide open to her. But once she enters the “real
world,” all she gets is one answer: no. So she goes through all the conventional
means of looking for a job, thinking that’s the best way to find something.
Unfortunately, she only finds the same answer. It was exactly how I felt after
college, like the whole world was at my feet, and all I did was trip over it.
But when the reporter for my
hometown left the local newspaper, I had just approached the 90-day trial
period of my printer service job. I declined continuing the 9-5 lifestyle to
take on a position with no real schedule. And sure, I had to sit at a desk to
write articles, but for the most part I was out getting the story. It was a great
writing job that utilized my degree and fit my aversion to early mornings. So
when my protagonist finally tosses up her hands and tries different options,
she finds her own unique solution too.
Sue showed me her unconventional
way of life, a divorcee originally from Utah running a writer’s and artist’s
retreat on the southern tip of Ireland. She is living her dream of helping
people, including me, find their creativity. And now it’s time to listen to my
own voice that’s been shouting this entire time: “You know who you are. You
know what you want. Get to it!”
