In the Grip of La Grippe
When you can't fight it, sometimes you've just gotta feel it
Over my long, uninterrupted drive home last weekend from Chautauqua, I did a mind scan to solidify my memories for a week-long visit to that amazing 150-year old Shangri-La on the lake.
Unless you’ve been there, it’s hard to capture. The experience of spending a week—or even a day—at CHQ, as it is shorthanded, brims with arts, culture, recreation, civics lessons, conversation, exploration and friendship.
And memories. My mind unspooled a beautiful reflection on how energizing, how restorative, how essential it felt to get away from the grind of the day-to-day, to get away from this all too-present present, and refuel.
A week in paradise, where everything is possible and nothing is required. For me, that included:
An early-bird awakening to take in the Perseids meteor shower over Chautauqua Lake.
Feelings: reluctance, disappointment, hope.
An immersive lecture series on Water: Crisis, Beauty, and Necessity, led by National Geographic Explorers, scientists, environmentalists and photographers. Each of them taking us on a different journey through, around, atop and under the waters of our planet where we could explore the ocean coral reefs, dive deep into Arctic waters to see wondrous never-before species, around Africa and South America to see how coastal communities are adapting to changing climate conditions, through Europe and Asia and around our own North American continent. They showed us the wonders of the deep, what is disappearing and what is rearranging, and how we could support some of their efforts to sustain and restore them—all without even getting our feet wet.
Feelings: awe, curiosity, frustration and gratitude.
A world premiere of a new play, The Light and the Dark, unspooling the wrenching life story of seventeenth century Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi, whose lifelike paintings of women, employed the light-capturing on canvas technique pioneered by Caravaggio brought women’s stories—women’s trauma—into public view in a way that felt authentic, for the first time. Stories about women by a woman.
Feelings: wonder at her courage and the traumatic truth of her experience as an artist when the art world only lauded men; shock and awe at how her light-and-dark depictions jumped off the canvas and caught me under my skin.
The afterparty, meeting Kate Hamill, the playwright who also starred as the artista, who shared how this story just poured through her in the writing of it. The actress told me that the reason she began writing plays was because there were not a lot of good, meaty parts for women. (Note to theatre lovers: Kate has written herself a great meaty part in this show.) The play is scheduled to open in New York in November.
Feelings: thrill, admiration, and yes, I’ll admit it, writer’s envy.
Venturing out for an early-morning kayak ride and meditation around the still-tranquil lake.
Feelings: calm, expansive.
Sitting with friends on the front porches of the old Victorian houses that line the largely motor-less, bike and pedestrian streets, and shooting the breeze—or engaging civilly in debate over hot-button topics of the day.
Feelings: felt, engaged and connected.
A healing sound-bowl meditation and, on the way out, talking writing with Kwame Alexander, who is the new director of Literary Arts for the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.
Feeling: energized.
The final night’s performance to close the week with the amazing Melissa Etheridge.
Feelings: EVERY SINGLE DAMNED ONE.
And, and, and. . .
Of course, vacations—even annual getaways like this one—must come to an end. Before all the feels left me, I wanted capture some of the insights from my time away to bring back to mind on-demand.
To set down the feeling. So good. So restorative.
My mind was spooling out the details in a streaming, virtual surround-sound, technicolor reel in my gloriously hi-def imagination. I was on a roll.
Feeling: elated.
In hindsight, I should’ve poured all the feels into a voice memo because, just like that, they have disappeared.
As my roadtrip progressed, my bones began to ache, my head pound. Shivers. I turned off the AC and cracked the windows, but, by then, the sun was baking.
Feeling: hot and cold.
I think you can see where this is going. Not la grippe, but a viral invasion of the Covid-19 variety, in whatever its current variant.
I couldn’t get home fast enough, but even when I did, I was pretty sure I remembered all these feels: fever 102. Those two pink “minus” lines showing up on the Covid test.
Feeling: miserable.
This Substack is all about Releasing Memory, and that is what my mind has done. Like the clouds on the lake, brain fog occludes my current mental capacity. I can no longer process taste or smell correctly. Runny nose, scratchy throat, hacking cough—well that cough is part of a bigger story.
I was reading a post by
on her [B]OLD AGE Substack lamenting how, as writers, we are driven by deadlines in ways that are often invisible to those we love and how, as a result, we often feel unseen—especially those of us who are writing full-time, or retired, or otherwise not part of the traditional workforce. I love that she invites readers (and other writers) to share their own experiences. Debbie asked, If you are writing on Substack, how do you describe your work to friends, family, and acquaintances?Being unseen in our work: that resonates. Writing is a solitary activity. It is only when we publish our work, heart in throat, that we may get a response: congratulatory messages that praise our efforts, send us to the moon. Critiques or dismissals can crash us to the ground.
But worst of all is getting no response. Crickets.
As for me, I am lucky to have a supportive writing group. I have given up on waiting for affirmation from my loved ones. I write because it’s in my bones, even the ones that are achy right now. I write because the process helps me manage all the feels. And because I’m a total word nerd. And because putting my thoughts on the page somehow captures the chaos of the cosmos and brings it down to earth.
And if any of that resonates with friends, family, loved ones, and strangers, so much the better. But I no longer fight with myself over whether what I do matters in a world that measures itself not in words but in net worth.
Because the measure of my wealth is in making words work. And now, I am hampered by Covid-brain. Not (I pray!) of the long-Covid variety, but simply of the inability to sync my heart within my body and my thoughts within my brain into coherence.
Unfolding Stories
So many projects awaiting my attentions: Struck by Stars, book five-in-progress of my Edge of Yesterday YA time travel adventure series. An ancestor memoir, also in progress, working title: [Re]member the World. Transcribing notes from my research. Editing two short stories slated to appear in anthologies in 2025. A persona poetry project and upcoming poetry workshop. Planning for an Edge of Yesterday youth STEM-learning project in partnership with Baltimore County Public Libraries set for spring, 2025.
Feeling: frustrated.
And, and, and. . . I can do nothing, smell and taste nothing. For now, all the feels are locked up in this virus.
Nothing to do for it but rest. Not the end-of-vacation memories I’d dreamed of painting into words, but larger forces have taken control. Too taxing to fight it.
Better to let go.
Back at it soon. . .as soon as all the feels are rightly restored.
I look forward to reading your thoughts below: how do you weather the fog when body and mind are out of sorts?
I love the contrast between the sharp, bright, lucid sensations of Chautauqua and the Covid-induced brain and body fog that follows. In a nutshell, don't we inhabit that alternating worlds of clarity and fog?
Sounds like you had a wonderful visit to CHQ! I’ve been there many, many times over the years and it was lovely to revisit through your eyes. Get well soon!