Back in the late 90s, the way to get into the Bread Loaf Writing Conference in Vermont was to submit 20 pages of an unfinished book-in-progress. Mine was Women and Houses.
I'd been encouraged to apply by my then-editor Hope Harris (no relation) who was trying out Texas with her husband. She was at the time a real editor in New York and didn't stay long in Texas, but long enough to start a writing group in Boerne--which I attended with Joy. Not only did she plant a seed in me to start writing groups in San Antonio, but she liked my writing!
When I got my letter of acceptance in the category of creative nonfiction, I was overjoyed! I would drive there so I'd have my own car to explore New England. My mentor would be Terry Tempest Williams.
I remember long conversations with Terry and other writers on the lawn of Middlebury College, sitting in the grass or in Adirondack chairs. On one of my one-on-one conversations with Terry about my book, she asked me, "What is the difference between questions we ask in inside spaces and the questions we ask in outside spaces?"
When I don't know how to answer a question, it reverberates in my mind for years, like a zen koan, as that one does. Terry was (and still is) an outdoor-space writer; I was an inside-space writer. What were the differences?
I'm still pondering that....
As I get older, I think about the differences between the outside version of a person and the inside version. When I was younger, I might worry about a pimple or a bad hair day or some other defect on my outside self. As I get older, I'm much more interested in the inner self. The outer persona reflects, for good or ill, all the good and bad habits and attitudes of all the preceding years.
My mama, Carlene, at 101 is the best example I can think of: loving to walk for decades, eating an orange every day, and avoiding habits that damage the skin. She also has a lifetime optimism and laughs more than anyone I know.
Yesterday I went to Walgreens to get my passport picture taken. In the bright light of the flash, the picture was a shocker. One eye was way bigger than the other. My nose was wider and flatter than it is in the mirror at home. My eyelids were puffy. Lines and wrinkles, sallow skin--the camera wasn't kind!
Had I seen that picture of myself a few decades ago, it would have made me run home and pull the blankets up to cover my unfortunate face! But I didn't have time or inclination to do that. I had places to go and people to see, and the impact of the moment was short-lived.
I went about my day. The thrift shop, the grocery store.
I ordered a pocket book online--imagining myself carrying it while wearing some of my favorite jackets and pants, with a passport inside of course, off on an international adventure. The pocketbook (handbag or purse to some of you) was a bit of a splurge and I knew it would make me look chic as all get out!
Truth is, I don't spend a lot of time tending to how I look.
In real life, what excites me is looking, more than being looked at (or not) by passing strangers.
In our older years, the tables of our 20s and 30s and 40s are exchanged for entirely different tables: observing, watching, conversations that light us up.
We're like houses, old houses, with many rooms. The exterior may be shabby, paint peeling, in need of repair. Eyes are like windows, bringing the outside in, and revealing the inside to passersby.
If I could go back and continue that conversation with Terry, I'd say this:
Just as you were shaped by the wide open spaces and landscapes of Nevada, I was shaped by the interior of houses. We didn't have expansive vistas in Cochran, Georgia, but spent time in our own homes and those of grandparents and cousins and friends.
My writing never was about houses, per se. The house has always been a metaphor for the Self.
