Night of My Arrival
I forgot a pen. How can someone attending a writing workshop forget a pen? The irony of it all.
This is my third VONA and I am excited to be here for one reason. I missed this energy. I remember, for my first VONA in 2014, arriving in Berkeley, California and looking so pale and anxious, my sister friend begged me to put on lipstick. I was anxious. I was also completely hungover from my 30th birthday celebrations, but that is an entirely separate essay.
I suppose I was more prepared for this VONA. I was anxious all week, felt the anxiety settle into my stomach, gurgle there. I was nauseous for most of Saturday before I got here. I was dizzy and jittery. When I hugged a sister-friend, who, also attending, offered to drive me to Philly, she remarked that I was shaking. I didn’t even realize that my entire body was buzzing until she said that.
I ask myself what VONA brings to my life and all I can say is energy and ink. The VONA experience is one that is about mastering balance. You must balance the work, the ink, the language, the craft with the emotional, social, and spiritual current running through the entire set of people in VONA. I want to make the best of this experience and I don’t want to squander the it. I am a sponge and VONA and all of its wonderful spills and overflow of energy, is the life-giving water. I want to grow this year as a writer. I want to laser-focus on what I am working on.
Day One of Workshops
I hadn’t really slept well the night before, but I was up and at ’em at 5:45am to make sure I was showered and dressed for the scheduled sound circle with Gina Breedlove. I went down to the dining hall with my dormmates for the week. Sat down to scrambled eggs, two sausage links and two pancakes, a take out cup of coffee and I was out. I had never done a sound circle before and didn’t know what to expect but I was open to the emotion and the experience.
The room smelled like sage and roses when I walked in. The scent of sweetness and herbs is calming for me, reminds me of botanicas and altars. Gina, an elegant woman shrouded in spirit addressed us all with the salve of her voice. She wore a floor length, long sleeve dress with greens and blues twisted throughout, shoulders framed with lilies of the valley, a tattoo of a butterfly on her neck. She has the kind of voice that soothes, that eases. Her movements were smart, intentional. Her gesticulations and breath were calculated, measured. Every thing she did was with an intention. Her voice was the sage in the room. I would like her to narrate my life.
The sound circle was meant for us to move energy through our bodies with sound, with the sound of our voices. Each sound was meant for a specific chakra, each Sanskrit word seemed to vibrate against us as we chanted them. The energy was lifted in the room. I felt it. I suppose I was vibrating hard because a number of people said they could feel strong waves of my energy. Sarah even came and placed a hand on my back and checked in with me, told me she could feel my energy from across the room. I thought to myself that this energy I am exuding is all because of VONA. I am allowing myself to be open to waves of energy that in any other way, I am guarded and wary of. New York City can do that to someone, force them to create walls around their spirit.
I felt the places where energy is blocked. I know it is blocked. No, not blocked. Locked. I know I have the key. I am working on loosening those joints so I can be fully open in my spirit. Solar Plexus chakra, the place that holds grief, the stomach, flipped and flipped when we chanted for it. I cried when I felt the chant reverberate there. I know the grief and trauma I feel is pushing against my solar plexus, my stomach, my bowels, my “gut.” I feel it there. I am swallowing to keep it all down. I have to allow myself to process and release. It’s all so complicated when you are unsure of how much you are holding there. Gina Breedlove referred to this release of energy and grief as having a “productive cough.” That resonated with me.
I know I am an energy carrier. I hold weight in this room, in this world. During the sound circle, we were asked what one of our favorite sounds are and my response was the sound of summer, cicadas in the trees, the buzz much like the hum of those chant words. I realized that my spirit is as wide as the ocean, as powerful as the ocean, and as vulnerable as the ocean. I must protect myself always. Ocean and roses.
After this opening of spirit, we went straight to our workshops. Our facilitator, Kiese Laymon, is the kind of spirit that reminds me of this beautiful Philly summer weather we are having. Warmth and light and cool, cool, cool breeze. He is a tentative and real soul. Someone that doesn’t parade as a facilitator but more like a prodding stick: Let’s think this, let’s ask questions, let’s make this messier. His brain and his language and writing are brilliance. His heart though. I know that is where he is the shiniest.
The conversations were just stunning. The sound circle work really opened us up and thought and heart poured out of us. I am choosing not to talk fully about what was discussed out of respect to some of the personal things the other writers spoke about, but I will highlight what crossed my mind throughout our workshop discussions.
I wrote in my journal, “When I forget things, I get scared about losing my mind.” I think about Titi Li. I think about Tita. I think and worry about my aunts, uncle, my mother. The loss of lucidity is my worst fear. I want to die with clear eyes and no cobwebs in my brain. I suppose I am pressed to publish and write these things because I am scared that if I don’t, I will forget it all. I will lose it in the mist of dementia one day.
And I want to die with clear eyes.
I thought about being 7 years old and telling all of my secrets to Velvetina, my velveteen rabbit doll. I told her all of my secrets and shared all of my child hopes with her. I whispered so much to my doll, that the seam in her pink satin lined ears had begin to tear. Pages and ink and words became the tear in that ear. I write for that ripped satin ear.
I described writing as being about fucking with your wounds constantly. Healing is not finite. One day you’re ripping off your bandages, exposing them to light and air. Other days, you pick at the scab, the stitches, the scar. The next day you coddle and recharge, you’re gentle, you try to heal yourself. There is no end point to this kind of work really. There is a constant rekindling, , a constant new lens on your wounds, your trauma, your pain. This kind of thinking made me think of Alex La Salle, advising me that too often people use the word “revolution,” when we should be saying “evolution.”
When we workshopped the first person’s piece, I think what came across is the line between technique and emotion, text and intention.The need to make sure that you are present when you write, that you put yourself in the story, and not just in a way that you are just a mere moving part. Place yourself in the story because you are a functioning and emotional part of the story.
We discussed the need to be compassionate with ourselves. Most importantly, we discussed the need to give ourselves permission to do this work, to trust ourselves with the art.
And that was just day ONE.