What the Muse Needs

Today I am on a plane, on my way to Toronto, where I will visit cousins I have not seen in 30 years, and not spent any real time with in more than 50.

Yet these are cousins of my heart, because of our shared childhood. Though we lived thousands of miles apart, we would be together for a week or two every few years at my grandparents' place in Indianapolis--a place we called Cherrywood.

Our "Grampy" built Cherrywood himself--a gingerbread kind of house with a screened in porch, at least one porthole-shaped window, and a lawn that sloped down to meadow, woods, and river. Nana was the matriarch, and she made it magical. As a child, I honestly believed the woods were filled with fairies in addition to the fireflies my cousins, brother and I chased in the muggy August evenings.

My book, The Summer of No Regrets was, in part, a tribute to Nana, Grampy and Cherrywood.

I was 32 when it was sold, and it was my introduction to grief. I had insulated myself from the deaths of Nana and Grampy, but when Cherrywood was lost to me, all that insulation was ripped away. What is it about a place that does this? It wasn't a house I was mourning--not really. Somehow the losses all the way back to my earliest years came howling in. Cherrywood had been safety. I didn't realize until it was gone.

It's these visceral losses that can bring the most authenticity to our work--if we are willing to let them in. If we think we are not writing memoir, we may want to reconsider. Fiction (and poetry) are deepened if we let the Muse have her way with our pain.

But not only our pain--the Muse needs to be fed with joy, too. Especially in these times. This reunion brings us all full circle--to summer evenings of stories enriched by the experiences we all have lived.

Here's a poem I wrote that summer:

Cherrywood

I’ve driven back twenty years,

twenty-five.

The sky is clouded,

the air thick with bird calls.

Brown squirrels wave their tails

and race along the tree limbs.

This place is no smaller than in memory –

just as full:

nuthatch and junco and chickadee

and that bird whose cry is a sob.

I sit on damp earth and listen

to the sneeze and staccato

of chipmunks.

And I watch from this back woods

the brick and wood,

the porch screen and

line of roof I have loved.

I am haunting my house –

the rail fence,

the garden,

the attic window –

I am seeing it burn –

And where will I find

a new haven?

--Katherine Grace Bond

Have I answered that question yet? Oh, yes. So many times. I was too young then to know how people and places we love live in us--that they are never truly gone.

Love,

Katherine

PS I'd love to have you join us for Summer Labyrinth Group Coaching, a small circle of writers offering support and professional feedback on your own most authentic work.

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Hi! I'm Katherine Grace Bond

What the Muse Needs

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