Monday, July 7
I didn’t sleep well. It’s a portentous thing that worried me before I even got here. So much of our behavior manifests in our minds and, well, it’s possible I willed myself to be congested. I wish I could have taken the approach of I am going to sleep well! But, I worried instead. And because the seed was planted, I willed myself to not sleep well. Part of it manifested from the congestion and sore throat I have been experiencing. Hanging out with Susan while she was sick was not a responsible thing to do on my part – with my immune system always dodgy because of my Celiac disease, well, I knew I was taking a risk.
Here at Fishtrap, I implied that my symptoms were from allergies, but, it’s more likely that I picked up my friend’s cold. Thus, I embarked on a long wrestle with sleep, as I failed to get comfortable from unbreathable suffering.
I got out of bed with the breakfast bell, which made me feel like I was at summer camp or boarding school. But I liked it. Irregardless of the restlessness. I sorted my stuff out on one of the empty bunk beds. After I washed up in the restroom, I headed over to the main hall to eat. I had fruit, a small serving of scrambled eggs, and brought in my gluten-free granola to have with milk.
After, I met a few members of my workshop and our instructor, poet Peter Sears. We walked to a cabin where we would meet all week. His wife, Anita Helle, was waiting for us in the main sitting room. It was an engaging interaction between husband and wife poets. First, we read aloud the poems “I Go Back to May 1937” by Sharon Olds and “I Ask You” by Billy Collins. We had a discussion about the form and style of these poems. And then we went outside to do a writing exercise. We were to find a favorite spot and write about what we saw above, below, ahead and behind us. After we returned and discussed the exercise, we were assigned our homework for the evening, to follow the form of Billy Collins’ poem and/or to write about something that happened before you were born.
After lunch, I bought two Fishtrap t-shirts and a ball cap. I went to the cabin to change and went for a good, hard walk down to Wallowa Lake. I crossed over the cement bridge with the glacial and minerally green-blue waters of the Wallowa River rushing fast, hard and loud below.
I wished I had brought my fly rod!
I continued to take photos of what I saw, of what inspired and moved me to stop and capture, as best I could, images of the incredible beauty that abounded. I brought my small notebook to take some notes along the way, as well, to reflect on my observations, allowing nature to guide my imagination. And then I was stung by a bee. Was this a sign?
After basking at the lakeside, admiring the changing shades from blues to greens, I decided to walk back to the campsite. As I wandered along, I noticed these graceful, lovely deer taking an afternoon snack at a wonderfully rustic cabin.
When I returned to the cabin I rubbed some Burt’s Bees blemish stick over the bee sting. It had witch hazel, among other natural antiseptic ingredients. Within seconds the swelling and redness reduced.
I went to Anita Helle’s afternoon lecture on Sylvia Plath and the archival of her work. Anita recently published a book called The Unraveling Archive: Essays on Sylvia Plath. The lecture was very interesting and it reminded me of how much I loved being a student. It reminded me of one of the wonderful English classes I had on Modern Poetry at Sweet Briar College. I loved listening, absorbing and learning!
I took a shower between the lecture and dinner. We learned this evening that there had been a bear sighting on the camp. This made me a little nervous.
And after dinner, the fellows, all women this year, read their work to the group. It was really impressive, especially the Argentine fellow and her dramatic delivery of her poems.
Instead of going out to Russell’s, I grabbed a table and got to work on one of my poems. I was determined to write something worthy of sharing with the class. I edited and rewrote a poem I had started in the spring called Tagore’s Gardener. I was determined to get this poem on track.
