“It’s like a crossed over a bridge this week,” I said. I was trying to describe to a friend my experience at The Glen workshop sponsored by Image magazine in Seattle, Washington. “Like walking a bridge, I crossed over–from one space of grief, high stress, and feeling lost–into a space of creativity, support, and direction. Many others laid the bridge together. Not me. I know that.

Mom’s death in late February and preaching the sermon/eulogy at her memorial service in late May was a huge loss and heart break. Caring for family members with various health issues and supporting Tim in putting together two large art exhibitions in the last four months was a lot of stress. The exhibitions involved: receptions; accompanying concerts, lectures; a preaching gig; writing text for an exhibition catalog, helping in the design and printing of two catalogues; and taking part in a panel discussion. In the middle of all that, a “bad and ugly bill” passed in congress that may remove Temma’s financial support that pays for her caregiver, provides her with health care and allows her to live with us in her home. I thought that I would visit my sister and her family in Anchorage, Alaska before the workshop in Seattle but at the last minute, on the edge of a breakdown, I needed to cancel that part of my trip.

A week and a half ago I boarded an early morning flight from O’Hare Airport and arrived to the Seattle Airport in a daze. I could barely keep swallowing my tears. With two suitcases, a large shoulder bag and a purse, I fell at the end of an airport escalator, damaging one of my suitcases, causing hand sanitizer to spill all it’s awful antiseptic-smelling contents into my purse, and snapping my sunglasses in two. Embarrassed and shocked, some kind strangers helped me up and gathered my things. “I’m all right, I’m all right,” I gasped as I stood and stepped off the end of the darn escalator that stops for no one or no thing. With my body now as sore and bruised as my mind and heart, weaving my way in a very crowded and busy airport, I finally found an open seat. I was able to gather enough clarity of thought to find my way to some food and copious cups of coffee. I called for one Uber ride but couldn’t locate the pick-up point so missed that one, racking up the missed ride fee. I called for another Uber ride to end up at Seattle Pacific University and my dorm room feeling like an old crone as lost as a newly-minted freshman.

The next morning we gathered for the first meeting of my creative nonfiction workshop. In preparation we were to have read Vivian Gornick’s essay, Fierce Attachments. Our brilliant class leader–author and professor Emily Bernard–gave the eight of us a writing prompt: Who or what haunts you? Describe a ghost, a voice, or memory that lingers. What is it trying to teach you? After spending some time writing on our own, we returned to the group and read our pieces aloud. When Emily asked me if I was ready to read, I nodded. “Ever since this morning I’ve been feeling very vulnerable,” I said. “We’ve got you.” said Emily.

In such an open space I could swallow my tears no longer. I sobbed as I read my little piece about bringing my baby Temma–now diagnosed with severe brain damage after six weeks in the hospital–to one of her many doctor visits. Dreading doctor’s judgments of me–when they first looked over my baby and inevitably asked, “What happened?”–Temma and I sat in that doctor’s waiting room for an hour and a half. After almost locking my baby in the car before entering the office building–my self-accusations and distresses quickly piled up while we waited. I worried about Temma and what she might need or want that I could not know. Like in a Flannery O’Connor story, I wanted to throw a book or something at that big, haunting doctor when he finally walked through the door.

With my tears still running down and feeling like the freshman ball of nerves that I was, I looked up from reading, and the eight pairs of eyes were staring at me in shock and maybe some awe. Emily commented that she was right there with me in that waiting room and wanted to strangle that doctor. She proclaimed me a writer and each one of us a writer after sharing our pieces. From that day and through each of the rest of the days of our workshop we dug deeper and deeper and bonded closer and closer. We read James Baldwin, Toi Delacotte, and Katha Pollitt. Our feedback and critiques to each other followed Emily’s lead in being supportive, revealing, and profound. Brick by brick we built a bridge.

At the end of the week, I made a commitment that during the month of August I will write 500 words a day toward my book project. I know that I can do it. I’ll let you know in September how I am.