- Cathy Stenquist
- Aug 1, 2024
- 3 min read
My body is home, but even a month later....
my head is still at Highlights.
7 a.m walks were the best way to prime for a creative day.
There is always a transition when you leave a place you love
and arrive back home to your everyday life.
You've been there. We all have.
The perfect place to write.
To this writer,
my retreat at the Highlights Foundation in Pennsylvania
has been a part of each day
since I got back.
There is something about
connecting with people who share your passion.
What joy!
And being out in nature made it even more wonderful.
Poetry friends- an endless source of inspiration.
Poetry has filled my head and my mornings since I got back.
Over twenty-five poems have been birthed since June 26th,
for a collection I am working on.
I'm in the flow.
But....
This excitement about writing has been tempered by several big rejections I got this week:
for a picture book, three poems, a memoir piece and even a Town mural proposal I submitted with my daughter.
Ugh! It doesn't get easier....
As you know, all part of a creative life.
So...
I continue to try to "go to Highlights" for a little while every day, inspired by everyone and every little thing.
Our inspiration rocks - mine was "seeds".
Hopefully some of the other outstanding subs will transition into acquisitions and an agent. Wouldn't that be nice? :)
So, in an effort to turn those "Literary Lemons" into lemonade, I'd like to take a dip into the "Poetry Friday Pool" for the first time today. Here is a verse poem I wrote on my first morning home from Highlights which expresses the transitional feelings I felt.
Have a good day, everyone and happy writing!
Cathy
Transitions
It’s the morning after.
Eyes flutter open.
“That’s right, I’m home.”
“I’m going to watch the news,” my husband says,
leaving me alone
staring at the ceiling.
I hear the loud mumble of newscasters
eagerly listing their stories,
one more urgent than the next.
My eyes squeeze shut to block it out.
I can feel my heart quicken.
I splash some water on my face
and join him downstairs...
because
that’s what I always do when I’m home.
On the couch,
everything is as it’s been.
But my head is at Highlights.
The images
shout for me to buy a car
or take the latest drug.
I grab the clicker and mute
It is too much.
I head upstairs
to find the quietest spot,
to open the window,
and let my senses carry me
back to the mountains.
I breathe in the birds
and words
and images of newfound friends.
I hear
the screen door snap shut on my cabin,
and buzzing meadow bugs searching for nectar.
I see
another poet on her early morning walk,
and rocks of inspiration.
I feel
gravel finding a new home in my shoes,
and sun on my face rounding the corner to the barn.
I smell
food lovingly being set out by workers,
up far before I stirred,
and the promise of creation hovering in the air.
The tv is suddenly turned off.
The house is quiet again.
I feel my heart lighten.
“I’ll make some breakfast,” he offers.
Soon, the familiar smell of coffee and bacon
slithers around the dining room wall.
I close my eyes
and I am once again
at the barn,
knowing my poet tribe
will soon be trickling in,
eager for their first cup.
©Cathy Stenquist
