Silly joy

being unapologetically happy

Sitting in a women’s circle on a mossy ground on a summer day, in a yard surrounded by pines and birches, spruces and maples, giving shades to the ones who wish and letting others to bathe in the glorious sun under the bright blue summer sky, knowing that not far is the sea, and in the house I have a room of my own for two nights, I try to come up with an answer to a question “What it means to be me?”

The other eleven women of different ages, whose background I don’t know, are leaning over their journals, pens moving fast, spilling out word after word after word. I don’t know what it’s like to be them, but I shouldn’t be thinking of them, and should focus on my own meaning and writing instead.  

Right now, being me means a body getting older faster than the soul and spirit. It means freedom and creativity and redefining my identity.  On some days it means wrestling myself into a sports bra or buying books instead of a dress or getting startled when a stranger calls me ma’am. It means eating magnesium tablets and wondering whether the baby pills receipt would be the last one I order. Being me means courage to not care about other people’s opinions and judgements, show up with sun bleached eyebrows and without make-up, share my writing publicly and attend a writing retreat for women, something no one else in my circle of friends and family has done before. Being me means an understanding that we always have to make choices between a thing or another, and even with the best intentions and all the time in the world I wouldn’t be able to read all the books I wish to read.  It sometimes means reminders of impermanence and saying out loud a phrase “The therapy of cosmic insignificance.”

For the days in the writing camp, my life is one of joy, silly joy, unapologetic happiness. I roll in the sea ignoring the cries of seagulls and forgetting the climate crisis. I go on a dance journey barefoot and in a long skirt, switching off the knowledge of wars, floods, famine, deforestation, political debates and diseases. I stuff myself with sweet cherries and spitting out the pits I dream of growing a sweet cherry forest of my own. Not interested in digging deep into the past nor exploring emotions and thoughts, I choose playfulness, my words dance to the rhythm of rhumba and the ants crossing the page join in.

Somewhere inside me is a wise elder woman, but she too has chosen to take it easy and is not too keen to answer questions about the meaning of life, what I can offer to the world or who needs my gifts. She recommends offering advice, proverbs, quotes, puzzles, questions, honey, jam and marmalade, time, compassion, light, my phone number, theatre tickets, candy, socks, tea and books. She wonders whether I am even asking the right questions and maybe I would benefit from watching water, either in a calm bog lake, flowing river, the wavy sea or from the faucet when filling a tea pot.

I am pretty sure the wise woman is not by herself, that my inner critic was bored and invited himself over, drinking coffee with three spoonfuls of sugar and a dollop of whipped cream, and on a sugar high he has been demanding the attention and overflows with a string of words that the wise woman turns into colorful thread and uses for creating needle point cat pictures.

I keep writing. I wonder whether it’s possible to have writing overdose from an online writing course and being in a writing camp. I wonder whether my own expectations have switched what I had hoped to feel as a flow of words into what feels more like plowing a field. I wonder where I am going with all my writing. The wise woman is too busy with the needle point and the inner critic is too busy commenting on her skills that neither one pays any attention to me.

I look at the words on my journal pages and I don’t get any insights or strong reactions. They are as they are. I may do something with them, but I don’t have to. For now, being me means living three days filled with writing, someone else cooking the meals and doing the dishes. I am a woman with a writer’s journal sitting in a writing circle among other writers.  I am the silly joy rolling in the sea of words, feeling unapologetically happy.