I'm Back (But Am I Better?)
Hey folks! I know it’s been a few days since I published anything here, and I apologize for that. There are several reasons why I’ve been quiet since Thursday:
My writing retreat involved a lot of writing, which didn’t leave me much writing juice for the evenings after that was done for the day.
Driving 7 or 8 hours on Friday and again on Sunday was also pretty taxing, and I didn’t feel like writing after either of those trips.
I’m still absorbing my takeaways from the retreat, and spending a lot of time considering what is most meaningful for me to share with you here, but it’ll be a while before I’m able to fully articulate how big a deal this was for me.
Regardless, I’m not planning on abandoning my newsletter. Just took a break for a few days.
Let’s see, so a few rapid-fire things to get out of the way right up front:
My car drives like a dream, and solo road trips are still something I enjoy a lot, it turns out.
I decided to write about Kellie and my grief and loss experience. Maybe that’s not surprising to you, but it happened organically and without forethought as I wanted it to, and I’m really happy with the direction that project is moving in. More on that in a bit.
Being at Pendle Hill was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, although I’m hoping to be able to make it happen much more often than once.
I had to take a few hours on Saturday night to work on writing and filming a presentation for one of the classes I’m taking. And it was worth the time investment, since I got a perfect score—hooray!
Being able to worship in-person with other Quakers was a special thing, and to have it be at Pendle Hill made it even more special.
Yes, I had an authentic Philly cheesesteak, and although it was pretty good, it wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
Having all the turnpike tolls across Pennsylvania automatically take pictures of my license plate to then mail me a bill for what I owe creeped me out, and I hope it’s not a thousand dollars.
My experience at the writing retreat can best be summed up in a series of very meaningful conversations I had with folks.
I had a really special time with another widower who my story had resonated with. We have a lot in common, and we were able to discuss those commonalities and how we’ve been trying to navigate those challenges. This conversation gave me an interesting perspective to add to my ever-evolving theory of lived experience and engagement across difference that I’m sure you’ll hear about eventually. He also made the statement that he’s come to the conclusion that he won’t be able to deeply write about anything until he writes more fully about losing his wife. That made so much sense to me that it solidified my plans for my own writing project that weekend.
I spoke with a Quaker-curious person who wanted to know the story about how I came to my faith and Quaker identity, which helped me solidify that narrative and increase my comfort level with sharing it.
A person told me that my voice is so kind and compelling and that they feel such a sense of peace and compassion coming off me when we talk, which was an incredibly nice thing to hear from a near-stranger. I like that being the case, at least in this instance, because that’s the kind of person I want to be.
I got a chance to speak one-on-one for a bit with one of the facilitators of the retreat, and I’m really appreciative of that time and the insights she had to share. Again, lots of shared experience between us, in spite of all our difference.
The other writers I spent the weekend with were lovely, and their writing was also great. Although I wasn’t comfortable enough to share any of my work from the weekend with them before the retreat ended, I enjoyed theirs.
Which brings us to the project I spent so much time on—I’m putting together a book about Kellie and I and this time in my life. I’ve sketched out its rough outlines. At this point, it’s looking like it’s going to consist of five personal essays and thirty-nine poems (though some of those numbers may change). I’ve written out rough ideas for all of those essays and poems, and across the retreat was also able to write eight thousand words on Saturday (writing rough drafts of four out of the five essays). I also wrote drafts of nine poems on Sunday, which I’m really happy with. That leaves thirty poems and one essay and then I’ll be ready to do some edits and tweaking. I’ve set myself a goal of being ready to move on to the next stage of this book (showing it to more people than just myself) before the end of August. That’s the goal, anyway.
I did every bit of the conceptualization for the entire book across the three days that I was at Pendle Hill, which also adds to the special nature of the whole project for me. I don’t know if I could have organized myself and cleared my schedule for three entire days of writing if I hadn’t gone, so I’m so glad I did. And I hope that you’ll be able to read it someday soon.
The overall feeling I was left with, upon heading out Sunday afternoon, was one of peace. As I told the other writers, I’m not sure yet whether it’s something I’m borrowing temporarily or whether it’s a permanent thing. But I feel this sense of peace that I haven’t had for months now, since I lost Kellie, and that’s worth any amount of time or money (and it really wasn’t that much money in the scheme of things).
The other huge piece of news I have for you is that I was officially accepted as a formal member of the Ann Arbor Friends Meeting on Sunday morning. Yes, if you believe you’re a Quaker then I would argue you’re a Quaker. As in so many other areas of life, I feel that self-identification is perfectly valid. However, there is a process one can go through to become an official member of a Quaker Meeting, and I began that process several years ago when Kellie and I started talking about what it would take for us both to feel comfortable and accepted enough by others in the meeting to put our necks out enough to go through that whole thing.
It’s scary to be that vulnerable. It’s terrifying to write a letter requesting membership, wait while a clearness committee of folks is put together who then meets with you to discuss your spiritual journey and beliefs and how you feel that joining the meeting makes sense within your particular context. It’s also really scary to wait while they discuss and let you know their recommendation, which is then taken to the Membership & Outreach Committee for a discussion and then waiting for THEIR recommendation to the meeting as a whole.
Anyway, Kellie and I had decided last fall to move forward with becoming members of AAFM for a whole host of reasons, primarily because we love being a part of that community, and because we’ve both identified as Quakers for years. Beyond that, because so many of the people within the meeting are among those we consider to be very close friends of ours. We respect these people, we trust these people, and in turn we feel trusted and respected by them. Isn’t that kind of the definition of community?
But then several others applied for membership last fall, and the Membership & Outreach Committee (which Kellie was on) got bogged down by requests for clearness committees at the end of the year. Everyone was kind of tired, and we didn’t want to add to their load. So we told each other we’d do it in the spring. In January, I gave a speech about my spiritual journey to the folks in our Spiritual Exploration Group, and told them that us applying to be members was imminent.
And that’s when Kellie got sick(er), and had to go to the hospital. The time just never seemed right. And then she died, and nothing at all seemed right.
In one of those very long and incredibly dark nights after I lost Kellie, on May 8th (just a little more than two weeks after it happened), I finished up my letter requesting membership in Ann Arbor Friends Meeting. I sent it in after midnight. I was seeking (and still am seeking) ways to solidify a sense of love and connection, since my biggest source of those two things is now gone.
As I said in the letter, folks are often told not to make any big life decisions in the immediate aftermath of such a massive life event. But this isn’t me making a big life decision on my own—Kellie and I made the decision together a few months before she died. We just didn’t get around to doing it in time.
Someone who was there when my letter was read to the meeting said that it was the first time a letter requesting membership made them cry. I believe them, but didn’t notice because I was too busy crying myself.
So on Sunday, while I sat outside under a tree at Pendle Hill, a pretty holy place, I Zoomed in to experience AAFM welcoming me as a member with open arms. I’m so proud and so grateful and beyond thrilled to be a formal member of the spiritual community that has been there for Kellie and I for almost five years now, and has shown me so much support since her death.
So how’s this? Enough of an update for now? You people are insatiable for new content, I swear.
Peace and love,
Matt