a small tribe

Cicely's daughter and the orange dress.

Cicely's daughter and the orange dress.

July 19, 2016 - Daily Notes, From the Editor

A small tribe is a meaningful treasure.

A group of female farmers in Rwanda grew my coffee this morning. While the barista poured rich brown liquid into my charcoal gray mug, I read the Starbucks card explaining it. They are known as Hingakawa, a mantra meaning, "Let's grow coffee."

I paused to imagine them and in my mind's eye saw a small tribe of women who support one another in a myriad of ways. It involves a lot more than growing coffee, I bet.

I realized Lucia is like that, too. My weekend was woven with a glistening thread of connection. It touched nearly every woman in my tiny tribe, the muses and heroines who make up this magazine.

There was the Friday morning creative meeting at the kitchen table of our online editor, Sarah, while her daughter corralled the "fat cat" behind couch pillows, drew Olympic mountains on a sketchpad, showed me her solar system, and tapped away at her pink plastic laptop in the window.

There was the tall glass of cold cucumber water in the late afternoon at Cicely's house, one of our contributing writers. We decompressed and discussed aging parents, children, lovers and life while her daughter plucked purple lavender buds which, in contrast to her orange sunflower dress, quietly shouted July.

Saturday came with an early wake up to go walk the "Power Promenade" with Amanda, our editorial advisor. We ventured into the wilds of a hidden urban forest and then, she held the sweetest party at her studio, The Institute of Moves, Muscles and Eternal Optimism. Champagne and laughter sparkled, a story was shared, and her clients gathered to celebrate what she has created. 

Mid-day, Karly, our design advisor, called me from somewhere between Colorado and Utah just to say she is skipping Wyoming in favor of returning home early. We spent ten minutes catching up on each other's emotional status before the signal dropped. We promised each other we would schedule a real call, soon. 

Then I hopped the busy afternoon ferry to Southworth to spend the night and celebrate my mother's birthday on Sunday with waffles for breakfast. We walked the woods with my sisters and niece. I helped care for my Dad as he continues the slow and steady crawl toward recovery.

If I am to share the truth about the creative process that underlies Lucia, it must be said that it has everything to do with a small tribe of women and weekends like this. We did not all sit down together around a conference table. We did not wear hipster hats. We did not shout out ideas in great gusts of inspired enthusiasm. We did not force ourselves onto social media just to have something to post today.

We held each other. We shared found things. There was reverence, awe, laughter, play. We scribbled in coloring books with the children. We moved and walked together. We celebrated one another's accomplishments. We helped. We called just to say, "I'm heading home." We grew the proverbial coffee. We loved, we created, we lived.

Hingakawa. A small tribe is a meaningful treasure.

xo
laura


Laura Lowery is the founder, editor and publisher of Lucia. She does her best to lead a creative life. Whether triumphant or stumbling, Laura shares daily notes (that are often weekly) here on luciajournal, including stories, behind-the-scenes happenings, little doses of inspiration, and large quantities of curiosity and heart. She is pleased to meet you.

in the lighthouse

In the Lighthouse by Edith Hope Bishop

A weathered sandwich board announced Free Tours and the peeling white paint of the building spoke of long seasons near the sea. My friend and I approached the door of the lighthouse looking for the others in our writing group.  We were all supposed to be enjoying a quick writing break to walk on the beach, but we'd somehow lost them while parking the car. 

“Maybe they’re inside?” I asked my friend.

Before she could answer, the keeper, an older woman in a khaki uniform, popped into existence, shooed us inside, announced us the last tour of the day, and locked the door.

Our friends weren’t inside. We were trapped in a lighthouse with an aggressive tour guide.

Photo by Edith Hope Bishop

Photo by Edith Hope Bishop

We followed her up the iron spiral staircase to the lamp room where an elderly man in a captain’s suit explained the history of the wide, Parisian lens. Its unlit body somehow still glowed before us like a massive crystal ball, reflecting and bending our bodies and the seascape beyond.

I made eye contact with my friend and smiled, knowing she was thinking my thoughts.

“This is story stuff. We’re gonna write the hell out of this someday.”

When I first became a writer, I feared the solitude that might encompass such a life. I’d been a teacher and a student, an administrator and an assistant. All of my work had been relational in nature and, perhaps as a result, I fancied myself a people person. While I was excited to start a new life, and one more in line with my deepest passions, I worried that writing would prove an isolating pursuit.

Photo by Edith Hope Bishop

Photo by Edith Hope Bishop

I wasn’t entirely wrong. When I write, I usually sit alone in a coffee shop or at my dining room table. I mumble to myself or to the characters who present themselves. I get up, on occasion, for more tea. I might compliment the barista on her earrings, or have a quick chat about an internet password with a stranger, but mostly, I go for long stretches of time without a full conversation with another living being.

But here’s the thing: as soon as I became a writer, and found the confidence to say “yes, I’m a writer” out loud (perhaps a story for another time), I found I had a bounty of friends and connections who were ready to talk about writing, share writing, offer advice and criticism, and bounce ideas around. The only problem was how and when to connect. Social media generally proves a limiting platform (for me), and email, while helpful, doesn’t offer an easy and rapid flow of ideas. Many of my writer friends are busy mothers, many work full time jobs. In this digital age, several of my closest writerly friends live hundreds, even thousands of miles away.

While I don’t get to see every member of my new community as often as I’d like, one solution that works for me is semi-regular informal writing retreats. Once a season or so, I plan a short weekend getaway with fellow writer friends. We rent a cabin, or find an inn, preferably in a place close to nature. Once there, we generally write during the day and play at night. We consume a lot of chocolate and coffee and okay, whiskey. When someone is sick of working, she grabs someone who hasn’t quite admitted they’re sick of working, and they go for a hike, or shop for baubles in the cute little town, or, during one recent retreat, feed the pigs.

Photo by Edith Hope Bishop

Photo by Edith Hope Bishop

At night, we watch a whacky movie, or we stay up until the wee hours reading aloud from our latest work. The glorious thing about these retreats is that for three or four days all of us are writers in the full sense. We aren’t moms first or employees first. We are writers among writers and we live and breathe and reflect on what needs to happen when we go back to our daily lives to make our work better and brighter. Sometimes we call bullshit on each other’s insecurities, or we gently (or not so gently) encourage each other to do the hard thing.

During one retreat this past year, a particularly brazen writer friend brought us gifts of polyester kaftans in a rainbow of colors she’d carefully chosen to reflect each of our personalities. It sounds absurd, because it was. Gloriously absurd. We happened to be staying in an on old Victorian house with a spiral staircase, and the roof of the attic room we’d rented was painted with coiling ivy. The moon was full. We donned our kaftans and cackled and howled at the freedom of the moment. It had been a long day and some of us were battling broken plots and sticky points of view. All of us were glad to kick back from book and burden. I felt an overwhelming gratitude for these women who inspire and support me.

Writing isn’t nearly as lonely as I’d imagined. I don’t work with my community every day, but when we find a way to retreat together, our time is a beacon.


Edith Hope Bishop is a writer, volunteer, and mother. She taught for several years in a high needs public high school in Seattle, WA. She is most at home near, on, or in any body of salt water.

things take longer

Things take longer than we think.
— My counselor

July 7, 2016 - Daily Notes, From the Editor

The lavender I planted when I first moved into this little white fairytale house four summers ago has not grown quickly. I envisioned each plant reaching its full potential by the following summer, but the ground here is hard and full of tree roots. The cedar I love so dearly drops soft needles that affect the soil Ph. Last year, I barely had any lavender blooms but this morning I noticed my plants are a bit bigger. Things take longer than we think.

My father is 83 and of Cherokee stock. I've always known he will live to be at least 100. Ten years ago, his kidneys were damaged by an adverse reaction to a combination of prescription drugs that two doctors didn't catch until it was almost too late. Somehow, though, he has managed to stay off of dialysis for a decade. The simple surgery last month to place a port in his abdomen in order to begin dialysis was nearly impossible for him to recover from. His body simply could not eliminate the anesthesia and pain-killers like the rest of us would.

We all thought, "Oh, once he starts the dialysis, he'll feel so much better right away." But he did not. The Fourth of July weekend was spent sleepless. I went home on Saturday to help my mother and my siblings came too. We are all taking turns going about this slow work of nursing and loving and cheering and praying. He is getting better. Things take longer than we think.

Reading to "Papaa."

Reading to "Papaa."

I am tender this week. Quiet, observing, processing. My job is to bring healthy food and cheer. I am going back today with heaps of both.

I want, so badly, for the lavender to be huge and abundant this year, like the massive purple mounds that grow in giant fields in Sequim. I want, so badly, for my dad to be well tomorrow and go back to watering his plants, tending his garden, and going out to lunch with his next-door neighbor on Tuesdays.

July reminds me these things take time, lots and lots of time. Growing, healing, recovering, changing...takes longer than we think.

This morning I am wearing a hot pink sequined heart tee-shirt because it might make him smile when I arrive later this afternoon. And if it does not, hopefully the steak and mashed potatoes and vegetables will.

May your July be slow, restful, healing, and touched with the magic of lowered expectations. Embrace the new normal, and find beauty in the small tufts of lavender that are tough enough, brave enough, to grow each year there under the cedar trees.

xo
laura


Laura Lowery is the founder, editor and publisher of Lucia. She does her best to lead a creative life. Whether triumphant or stumbling, Laura shares daily notes (that are often weekly) here on luciajournal, including stories, behind-the-scenes happenings, little doses of inspiration, and large quantities of curiosity and heart. She is pleased to meet you.