Steepletop

Steepletop is not just a place. It is a living thing of its own accord. It was home to Pulitzer prize winning poet Edna St. Vincent Millay and her husband Eugen Boissevain from 1925 until his death in 1949 and hers in 1950. They lived a bohemian life, cultivating their hundreds of acres and holding soirees at the house. The name of the house came for the steeplebush that grew - and still grows - on the property. 

Is it haunted? Most definitely. It sits on its mountain, a mausoleum, preserving a poet's soul and all she owned. It is only opened once a year or so, and I determined to be there for their "Afternoon on a Hill." 

I will be the gladdest thing
    Under the sun
I will touch a hundred flowers
    And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
    With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
    And the grass rise.

We did just that. From being within the house and feeling Millay's essence everywhere...to peering inside her writing cabin...from walking to the "high hill" with its tennis court now covered in thyme and sweeping vistas...to strolling along the poetry trail to the reclusive gravesites.

There was music and wine, but we skimmed the edges, preferring isolation to close communion - we took to heart Vince's homemade painted sign in her library - SILENCE. But even hearing the snippets of conversations proved we were with people of like mind. It was profound to be at "one more soiree at Steepletop."

The "After" Times

There were "the before times," and then there's now. A year and a half into a global pandemic, and where is my literary life? Has inspiration flown like the security and normalcy we cherished? Certainly my blog has been silent. Certainly there have been no escapes to writer's homes for inspiration. Scotland stands out like the apex of "life as it was" - one grand finale to a world changed forever.

There have been words - many words - during this time. There were many words as I fought through Covid myself. They've been introspective words, soul searching words, words of transformation. Illness forced me to go deep - to find those internal things that needed attention, healing, change.

It was a vast time of dark exploration, but now I give it a nod of gratitude. Quiet fortitude and peace have a place they never had before. Acceptance. Putting aside hurt, grievance, regret, sorrow - anything that would hinder healing. Meditation has a place now, as does a deeper desire to embrace curiosity and knowledge. 

Time at home has given me a chance to organize all the family photos. Spending time with images was like spending time with people I couldn't - with people physically distanced, literally and figuratively. It was weaving together a photographic narrative of life. Now that they are in order, I'm asking my brother and sister - as well as my 89 year old aunt - to add physical stories to go with the images. 

So, yes, it's been an altered literary life. It's been putting together a picture-scape, weaving a tapestry of a family. It is a multi-series biography that spans centuries. It feels good to spend time with "what was" and prepare a legacy for the younger generation in the times of uncertainty.

Yes, there were hard times. Yes, there was joy. Yes, we persevered. 

Scotland

A fair portion of my ancestors are Scot-Irish. Even though my family has been in America for 300-some odd years now, they still retain so much of their culture, mindset, and mannerisms, it makes you wonder about inherited genetics.

They are a people slow to change, and yet they are as steadfast as the hills. They tend toward fascination with the fatalistic, and the ballads that run with blood are alive and well. They are a cautious people, and so they have endured.

And yet...while happy to embrace the fantastically creative side of this lot, I have long felt the need to "conquer the Scot-Irish" mindset of fear. So what did I do? I went "home." And I unwittingly did it during the beginnings of a pandemic.

I seized the opportunity last summer, when a friend who has created the unparalleled Muses Escapes adventures, sent out an invitation to stay in the highlands - in a 16th century castle far removed from technology or the outside world - for a writing retreat.

This was the path ~ I knew it would be a gathering of like-minded, stunningly creative, and talented women. Women who retain the belief in dressing for the sense of place, for dinner, and for breathtaking photographs. Women who adventure. 

It was not an easy place to get to, and that led to its charm. Eighteen muses converged on a remote peninsula to the frustration of Uber and taxi drivers all over Scotland. But then, we were left alone by the fitful sea in all its moods to our revelry. And revel we did - writing sessions by candlelight, gourmet meals, fairy kitchens, flower crown workshop, golden harp music in a dungeon, love letters written to one another...and all under a full moon.

                  

In the meantime, we wrote. We wrote poems, stories from assignments, heart-wrenching confessions, novels, songs. We wandered over pebbly shores and highland moors, taking in ancient abbey ruins protected by effigies. 

We were there, like characters from a Bronte or Du Maurier novel, aware that there was a virus in the outside, but having no idea that it was spreading over the entire world. Now it feels like we were there while the world was falling apart. Many of us made it home just before border closures. 

Now, if that's not facing your fears, I don't know what is. And more importantly, the isolation & seclusion, the wild winds pushing waves back to sea, the stirring of my soul...all broke something free within in ~ words came, stories flowed ~ and I connected and embraced my heritage.

And, I wrote...

One of those Pilgrimages

As a writer, you have "those icons." The writers you connect with most, the ones whose words leave you breathless with inspiration. Emily Dickinson falls into that category for many of us, and rightfully so. As our guide in Amherst recently said, "Emily makes you work."

How beautiful to be able to write "in Amherst," for yes, I have been! I stood in the town and remarked about the fact with the same disbelief and fulfillment I had when I said, "I am in Spain."

My intrepid adventuresome sister and I set off in the remnants of "Tropical Depression 17" to make this trek ~ we were not to be deterred. We passed through stunningly dilapidated New England towns ~ former mill towns with sprawling factories left abandoned to broken glass ~ but we found Amherst bustling with the several colleges active there.

We'd not eaten, nor taken a restroom stop for awhile, and we really just stopped at the house to check in and see about touring "in time." I blew through the door with the rain, however, and when the desk attendant said, "Would you like a tour? We have one starting in about a minute" I said, "Yes!"

And so my sister walked through the door and we were swept into the hallway of the Belle of Amherst. The house is expansive and light. I wasn't sure what to expect from the vibe of the place ~ but I found it provocatively happy. I could feel immediately why she was content to become a recluse within its walls.

I had seen the movie "A Quiet Passion," which I am glad I saw, but which I will likely never watch again. Tonight I began "Dickinson," a new Apple TV+ rendition of the poet's life. It was what I expected, but I will likely binge watch it, as I think it gets closer to some inherent truth despite it's artistic licence. My entire image of Emily has changed since learning her hair was red (though it's dark in the show). I feel like I understand her better, sitting at her small writing table in her corner room.

In Lavinia's room the museum has a classroom of sorts set up, where we studied Emily's unique style of verse. "Would anyone like to read this poem aloud?" our guide asked. Would I? To read "I dwell in possibility, A fairer house than prose" in her home, where the words were penned....the very air seemed to breathe!

We also trekked across Emily's path to the Evergreens to call on Austin and Sue. To my delight and horror, this house has not been restored! It is very much like it "was" and yet not, and yet so! I could fairly hear the literary soirees taking place in the parlor ~ and the artwork collected by Austin hangs in the dim solitude of falling rain.

The nursery where Emily's nephew died is just as it was.

I left one of my calling cards in the bin by the heavy Victorian staircase. It was pleasing and pretty there.

The gift shop had very few items for sale ~ I admit disappointment and surprise, but I bought a volume of poems and a card with the print of the wallpaper in Emily's room. It was thrilling to know they had found and replicated the original. Roses.

And so, my copy of Emily's poems remains the one that was originally dad's. It's weather worn with a 60/70's cover and lose pages, but perhaps that is the perfection of it after all. I can see how she influenced his own writing, in those days of education with Bruffy Conner. I would like for dad to know I was there ~ for him to have gone, even. But perhaps we take our spirits with us. Or, perhaps they are communing in the afterlife as I write.

After all, we dwell in possibility, don't we?

The Second Book

The second book is a sacred thing ~ it's going forward with the promise to yourself that you are a writer. That you will keep doing this thing.

In this case, Chrysalis is a compilation of three years of my life, through caregiving, grief, and recovery. It's verse, a day here, a day there. One of my friends at the Left Bank Writer's Retreat said she thought she could do a haiku a day, and that was my inspiration. I thought "I think I could manage that, too."

Being able to just jot a short line often emptied emotion in a powerful way. It was hard to revisit some of these poems to type the manuscript, but in the end, they showed me that I survived, and that others can as well - and maybe not just survive, but also take flight.

A Nudge Along the Way

Sometimes in this busy life, it is hard to sit down and take the time for thought, let alone the depth of thought that writing necessitates. Sometimes we need a little help along the way. On my last venture to the bookstore, I came across a section of Piccadilly books ~ they offer inexpensive little guided journals with a rich variety of writing prompts! I bought a book called "Write the Poem." It provides a topic, lined pages, and eight words of potential association. Add to that your pocket rhyming dictionary, and you're off!

Each action leads to more action, each thought leads to connections. There's a whole set of these books ~ "Write the Story," "Draw the Picture." I know I'll be back for more!

Learn more about "Write the Poem"

Learn More about Piccadilly's "Get Inspired to Write" series

The Art of Living

Sometimes a chance comes that you can't deny ~ that denies belief, even. When I saw that Julia Cameron, the "high priestess of creativity" and author of the Artist's Way was going to be at the Art of Living Retreat Center in Boone, NC, there was no way I could miss such a chance.

It has been an immersive experience, not only of writing, but of learning how to breathe, how to stretch, how to meditate, how to eat, how to expand. I came seeking clarity of purpose and heart, and it has been a firm beginning. From the first fast-paced session in the dark of 7:30 on a windswept mountaintop, we have opened our hearts and minds to strangers we can now call believing mirrors. 

Julia has fit most of the 12 weeks of the Artist's Way into three days, the effect is powerful. The fog that was pervasive the day we arrived has cleared and left stunning new vistas all around.

The moment it all comes together

And then, one day, you have published a book, and all the dreams and hopes of your entire life are contained within 98 beautiful pages of verse and art.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/kendra-hinkle/creatures-of-time/paperback/product-23546935.html

Left Bank Writer's Retreat 2017

A third trip to Paris feels like going home, especially when you go to meet friends you seldom see, but fall into accord with like no time has passed at all. Especially when you spend evenings together playing petanque and eating cheese and charcuterie plates on the sidewalk. And especially when your sister and brother-in-law have come as well, celebrating life and monumental birthdays.

The Left Bank Writer's Retreat this year had a completely different feel - most of us were return retreat members - and the activities were changed enough to make us feel like we were expats of our own, exploring inspiration and talking our way through Hemingway's cafes.

One of the greatest experiences was performing in a play in the Luxembourg Gardens. The play, Finding Sylvia Beach, was written by one of our group, and I was honored to have a role!

Collaboration

Writing is considered a solitary act...and it is...to a degree. There is one person making marks on a page, either via pen to paper of fingers to keyboard. This doesn't seem to capture the essence, however, of inspiration.

Guidance in writing is an active sort of thing. It entails listening ~ to the "random word" of inspiration, a companion to art. Action begets action, as well, and that often comes from outside sources. Those sources can be natural, physical, or human. A sunset...a smell that throws us back in time...a passing phrase of a stranger.

And then there is engagement. Creative collaboration of a group of like minded people. One who can see the next step clearly when you're stymied. One whose talent's enhance your own. One who can keep you accountable.

We've had a rare week here at Firefly Creek. Like-minded and ready to embrace our callings, there have been daily writings, discussions, readings, and assignments between me, my siblings, and my brother in law.

This is how life should be. Dinners should be bacchanal events. Dusks should be spent on the deck by torchlight, listening to readings of Byron. Days should be spent on devotionals to connect us to the life force we celebrate in word.

Phrases and observations emerge ~ "Early May honeysuckle, one of the greatest gifts of creation..."

"He doesn't sound like the most noble of people."
"What's that got to do with it?"

Tasks emerge ~ "Set up your own webpage ~ record this reading professionally with R playing the background music..."

Ideas emerge ~ "Why not this layout? Take your story this direction."

Questions emerge ~ "Do you have a vision for the end, or is it a revelatory process?"

Oh, it's a process...and it's enhanced by collaboration.

The Spring Freshet

I write more in fall and winter. I'm inspired more by those seasons. It seems like spring and summer should inspire more, with their riots of colorful blooms at every turn.

I suppose I feel like they speak for themselves. I go for the understated. The beauty less loved. I adore the solace of snow. I chat with engaging, crackling fires ~ and note the sublime in crackling morning frosts.

This is a lesson for a writing life. Look at more than the obvious, the showy. Focus on the undercurrents, the building blocks for the "greater" seasons to come. This will create a fullness in your work, enriched by quiet introspection and observation.

Then, when the riots of morning birdsong and evenings of spring peepers in the pond come, as they have now, the fullness of their songs will be enhanced by the comparative depth of silence.

Emergence

Why didn't I think of that?

I have to admit, I'm rather ridiculously excited about a concept I wish I'd come up with - that editing writing can be fun. What?! That torturous exercise of revision ~ of grappling with vocabulary for the perfect word or turn of phrase? How?

By comparison. I just finished the chapter Form Versus Formula in The Right to Write where Julia Cameron compares writing editing to film-making editing. Again I exclaim, What?! There is nothing I love more! Then the flash came ~ I understood what she was saying, and it has changed everything.

In film-making you get shots ~ lots of them ~ from every angle imaginable. If you are filming people, you film each person from the front, side, and/or back. If one person has a monologue, you film the other character's reaction to it. If they are handing off objects, you get a tight shot of the transfer. Then you take it all back to the computer and begin splicing and dicing and weaving the clips into scenes. THEN you give the scenes filters and effects to really set the tone and mood. And it's thrilling.



Why, then, can we not think of writing this way? I think there's the idea that it has to come to the page in perfect form, from start to finish. Why not just throw everything out there, from every angle, from every perspective, and not even worry about refinement til we get to the editing process? Yes, you can keep the best parts, and leave the others on the cutting room floor.

If there is something beautiful you "can't part with," tuck it in another file for potential use on the next project.

Add light, add effect, add emotion...and above all, enjoy. "Action!"

Who I am instead

My sister sent me this quote last night, sharing in her frustration over it. Sometimes security is absolutely worth it ~ like caring for a loved one through illness or in their twilight years; or, making sure your children have a life that will grow them into thriving adulthood. There is something about security that brings its own satisfaction.

I would also argue that dreams aren't so easily murdered. I think everyone has an alternate persona apart from their everyday life, apart from what they do. Ask anyone "who are you instead?" and you'll likely get an answer that sounds something like the idea of these dreams.

The key is to live in keeping with your desires as far as possible anyway. Weave your dreams into your secure life. These are not mutually exclusive things.

I am a park ranger ~ that is what I do. I am a writer and an artist and a traveler ~ that is who I am. While I was caring for my father, part of what got me through was styling myself as Emily Dickinson, L.M. Montgomery, or Charlotte Bronte, secluded in my home, writing, caring for my father and the land, and finding beauty where I could.

Do you have a dream in the midst of your everyday life? Take an online class, take a picture, watch a how-to. Buy a notebook and a fresh pen, buy a sketching pad and some pastel pencils. Step out in the direction of your dreams, and I think you'll be surprised at how resilient they are.

Prepping for Paris

Returning to the Left Bank Writer's Retreat in June has me already dreaming of the City of Light. I'm swimming in related literature until I get back there in person...I'm longing for violet ice cream, art, and the sound of bells chiming the hours.

March 1st

In like a lion 

Or in like a gentle lamb 

The air seems quiet 

Unnaturally so ~
A weather breeder we called it

A restless stirring

Disquiets my inner peace

Storms are predicted. 

The Effort of Ease

Tonight I realized there's more to this literary journey than just seeking out author's haunts ~ although that will always remain an on-going quest and pilgrimage goal for me. But every day is a literary journey through life! Every day there is some connection, some insight, some passing thought or quote that stirs the soul. This is to become my pool, my well, as Julia Cameron would say, into which to drop the random word.

My current inspiring read, with a Kendra-original bookmark

"When we write, we 'place' ourselves in our world. We say, 'This is where I am right now, and this is how I feel about that.'" Julia Cameron

Gadding about in Sleepy Hollow

"IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee,...there lies a small market-town or rural port...which is...generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town..." Crossing the Tappan Zee bridge, the longest in the state of New York. "Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility...
From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW..." "A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols...
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head..." Bewitching indeed. This mesmerizing tale hooked me and my sister when young with suspense and lore that was tantalizing and yet not tooo macabre. When my niece moved across the mighty Tappan Zee Bridge from Sleepy Hollow, we knew we had to visit. Sleepy Hollow is not only surrounded by the high hills that Irving wrote about, the cemetery sits on one of them, arching above the Old Dutch Church.   It is everything you might imagine a cemetery to be...      The wind was blowing balmy and mysterious as we stepped into the setting of the story itself. We visited and paid homage at Washington Irving's grave - where else COULD he be buried? - and thanked him for his creative and fantastic imagination.     In that storybook place you could easily imagine "the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still...evening, [who] has often fancied Ichabod's voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow."

O. Henry

"The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate."
O. Henry

This story begins in reverse. It begins in Asheville, NC, where I've seen the marker to O. Henry, William Sydney Porter, many times.

 

But Asheville is where he spent the last years of his life, and he is buried in Riverside Cemetery there. He was a native Carolinian, after all, but for many years, I'd heard how his journey also took him to Texas. He moved for his health, to try to help a persistent cough. While there he published a satirical paper called "The Rolling Stone."

 

He also got a job in a bank, but spent three years in jail for embezzlement. It was a turning point, as you might imagine. He used the time to hone his craft and memorize every word in the dictionary.

 

While on a trip to San Antonio for training, I happened by the O. Henry house one night with a group from class quite by accident, on our way back to our hotel from the panaderia, Mi Tierra. Here it was, by happenstance!

 

 

 

I learned that ~ "Hoping to use O. Henry as a role model, Bexar County Chief Probation officer...assigns his probationers as docents in the O. Henry Museum to fulfill their Community Service. A college scholarship [is] awarded to the probationer who best demonstrates a change of attitude and goals in life."

 

The mural behind the museum was painted by one such probationer, and remains as a symbol of hope to others.

 

 

O. Henry died at the age of 48, from cirrhosis of the liver, diabetes, and an enlarged heart. People visit the gravesite of the author of "The Gift of the Magi" and often leave $1.87 in coins on his stone...

 

 

 

"One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas."

 

 

 

More of the Lost Generation

Last summer I was invited to Asheville to do a week detail in the museum storage area of the Blue Ridge Parkway. One of my favorite NPS team-mates also came, and in our free time we scoured the city for remnants of Thomas Wolfe and Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Part of it was showing Kate places I'd already found, such as My Old Kentucky Home, Riverside Cemetery, and the Grove Park Inn.



My Old Kentucky Home was Julia Wolfe's boarding house and the setting for "Look Homeward Angel. It is still very much like stepping into the novel.

The Parlor

The dining room

One of Tom's suits hanging in an upstairs closet. He was very tall.

Tom's grave marker in Riverside Cemetery - we left a pen.

While at the Wolfe site, we found out that Jude Law had visited as research for his part as Thomas Wolfe in the upcoming film "Genius." We were told they even took him to the cabin where Wolfe wrote "You Can't Go Home Again." No amount of wheedling could make them tell us more, or where the cabin was, or whether we could see it. That made us more determined than ever. We asked everyone we could think of, did online research, and sleuthed out the rest... It took some crawling over gates and quite a hike, but....

As for the Fitzgeralds....

At the Grove Park Inn, where Scott would stay when visiting Zelda during her days in Highland Hospital.

Zelda died in a fire at Highland Hospital on March 10, 1948. I'd never been to the site of the hospital before, so we had to find the location and pay homage there as well. Many of the building still exist, but there is a stone to mark the location of the hospital.

One of the buildings Zelda would've known

The site of the hospital and Zelda's marker - "I don't need anything except hope, which I can't find by looking backwards or forwards, so I suppose the thing is to shut my eyes."  Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald

To finish off the trip, we found a "Speak-Easy," which had been one of Thomas Wolfe's father's favorite local spot. Lex 18 - the atmosphere was evocative. A silent film played on a screen in the dining room, and Kate and I ended up naming the night's cocktail based on the plot of the film - "Marushka's Revenge"!

Lex 18 Moonshine Bar