Anam Cara

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!”