By Mandy Trichell
It takes a little more to bring her out these days, but I wasn’t surprised (and I was thrilled) to feel her presence when I boarded the plane that would take me from Houston to New York for a week in the Catskills. She loves flying and always wants a window seat, even though we both know I’ll have to get up and pee at least a couple of times. I get protective of her when I feel a passenger rolling their eyes as we (I) take photos of the clouds. When we arrived in Albany, I felt her shrinking back. Not in fear, just in that way that children do when adults have adult things to do, like finding the car rental counter and baggage claim. I hoped she’d join me again once I was on the road, but she didn’t.
An odd thing was happening—the joy I typically feel when I’m on an adventure had been replaced with an inexplicable apathy. I looked for it—the excitement, the anticipation, the curiosity—I tried to produce it. I had First Aid Kit pumping through the speakers, which seemed a great soundtrack to the farms strewn about the countryside, which were patches of green amongst still naked trees that hadn’t quite realized it was spring yet. I had the windows cracked to let in cool, fresh air as I cruised toward the tiny village of Stamford, New York. I thought about the writers I would soon see, this being my fourth or fifth Wayward Writers Camp. I arrived at my perfectly charming AirBnB with cozy low ceilings, a creek running through the backyard, mountains on the horizon. I continued to feel nothing. I was observing myself from outside of myself, and my apathy was shifting, becoming more of a weight that I felt in the pit of my stomach. With a full 36 hours before the first day of camp was set to begin, I held out hope that by then, I’d have my sparkle back.
I busied myself with walking around town, registering at the gym one block over, visiting the local coffee shop, unpacking, and picking up a few groceries. I pretended to be myself as I came in contact with new, kind faces. The kindness! I’m from the south, where deferential politeness is (was? Perhaps not so much these days) beaten into you at a young age, but the kindness I was experiencing in this small town in upstate New York had a sincerity to it that reminded me more of being in South America than Texas, or even Louisiana.
The first day of camp brought me to a respectable old farmhouse. Flanking it precisely to the northeast was a garage turned cathedral. This would be our sanctuary, our gathering space, but first, into the house for hellos, hugs, and snacks. I was still bluffing my way through being human. With every interaction, though, pieces of me slowly assembled, tetrising their way into the nooks of my body. About halfway through the first day of camp, as we sat writing about what home means to us, the last little bit of me fell into place. I was where I felt the safest: in community. And because I was writing in community (which is, in fact, a love spell being cast in a coven), I felt her beside me on the church pew. She leaned forward, swinging her legs, in the garage/cathedral turned classroom at the Mutual Aid Society. She was in a yellow sundress, her waist length black hair tangled, her bare feet dirty, and she was smiling, basking really, as writers from all over the world shared what they’d written, examining the concepts of utopia and home. I got the memo: we are free and safe here.
She’s not (she hasn’t ever been) mischievous. Where I am looking for love, she is simply receiving it. Where I seek permission, she is already empowered. My child self is who I seek to emulate. She is my mentor. She is the ancestor I call on. She unlocks my heart just enough to let my own light seep through, a light that (albeit subtly) invites others to mingle and dance with it. She pulled me by the hand into the center of the room when Avis led us in chakra dancing. She picked up my arm, like I was the champion in a boxing match, and raised it when Ariel asked, “Who wants to share what they’ve written?” She swooned over Nora’s poetry. She helped me choose an image when Alyssa guided us through making comics.
By late in the second day, I didn’t need anymore coaxing. I was in my body. I was open and in love. I was in love with the quilt square I made in China’s workshop. I was in love with Dusty’s book that I weeped and smiled through in half an hour at the coffee shop. I was in love with the generosity of spirit in which Christa told us all their self-publishing secrets, Elisa’s handmade autobiography, Rebecca’s activity book for overcoming the inner critic . . . I was in love with the sun’s reflection on the pond, the chickens wandering around it, the geese on the side of the road, the red barns and rural decay dotting the landscape, the chill in the morning air, the old ladies at the gym, the creek in the backyard, the businesses that only took cash or local personal check. I was in love with my adventure, with this temporary (but hallowed) home, with this utopia.
Mandy Trichell lives under the devil’s tongue, aka Houston, TX. When she’s not writing, she makes art with discarded Barbies, bosses people around the gym, and spends time with her three adult children: a comic, an inventor, and a musician. Her work has been published in The Washington Post, Mountain Bluebird Magazine, The Literary Kitchen, Reading and Traveling, and in the anthology Shout Your Abortion. She has told stories on various stages, as well as on camera for the PBS program ‘Stories from the Stage.’ https://mandytrichell.substack.com/p/mandy-trichell
