I remember

Thanks to my friend, Carol Anne Connolly, I'm doing a fantastic online writing course.  This is my assignment this week.

I remember my first writing workshop.  It was Hong Kong, March 2001.  After enduring five weeks of SARS, home-schooling our three children then aged 7, 4 and 2, several bouts of black rain where everything in Hong Kong grinds to a halt, and repeated rants to my husband, "Tell me again why we moved to this rock in the middle of nowhere?" he booked me on a 12-week writing workshop with Jane Camens.    There were 12 in the class including me; the rest were American, Australian, or English.    Jane kicked off by handing out a three-page handout called the Morning Pages.  "I want you to write three foolscap pages every morning with a pen.  No typewriters or computers; it has to be with your hand."

 

"Why does it have to be first thing in the morning?" I asked. Clare sitting beside me answered, "Because if it’s the first thing you do, you don't have time to polish or edit; it is truly your raw thoughts you're putting down on paper."  I wondered the value of that, but Jane was talking again. 

 

"Now, to get you going, I want you to write a page on, 'I remember.'  The first t thing that came to mind was my father's, Red Ford Cortina and how it would never start on cold mornings.  After 15 minutes Jane asked us to read our pieces. The Australian man to my left described meandering down the Waanyarra river, paddling a canoe, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus trees, as the sun was setting. An American man wrote about the last conversation he had with his dying father.  My heart sank, "I'm out of my depth here." Finally, Jane turned to me. I read my piece.  I heard a few sniggers but kept going.  When I finished, Jane cocked her head to one side, looked at me kindly and said, "You're funny." Jane gave us another writing cue, and we were off.  I filled five pages before she told us to stop.  We read aloud again.  Jane looked at me and smiled, "You've found your voice."

 

My heart exploded with pure joy.

 

When the class finished, I floated down the hill to the Star Ferry to catch the bus home.  The sky was screaming its brilliant blueness; the sun felt gloriously delicious on my upturned face, the water in the harbour sparkled just for me, the noises of the city filled my ears with music.  I loved the world, and the world loved me back. It was as if Jane had taken an axe to my head and split my brain wide open - I was alive. 

 

As I neared the bus stop, I remembered home and pulled out my phone. 18 missed calls. All from Neil.  My darling husband, who made all this happen and with a smile in heart, I listened to his voice. 

 

He sounded urgent, "Tubber, the boys, have judo, where are their uniforms?"

 

Next message, "Where are their uniforms?"

 

I could hear my son, Conor wailing, in the background.

 

Message 3. "Geraldine, will you for God's sake turn on your phone and ring me."

 

As I listened to his panic and obvious annoyance, the world around me seemed to shrink. I shivered in the cold harbour breeze.  Reluctantly, I boarded the bus for home and slumped into the first available window seat.  

‘Well, that’s just great,’ I thought to myself, ‘back to dreariness, back to my real life of making a million dinners for thankless mouths, the school run, dropping and collecting to play dates, soccer training and judo practice.  As the bus struggled up the steep hill, Jane's voice floated through my thoughts, "You've found your voice."  I snatched it before it floated it out again and mentally put it into a little box to be savoured later. 

I'll be back.