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There was a line Tom Cruise delivered to Renee Zellweger one time (or was it Renee, to Tom?) in some movie I saw a long time ago. “You complete me,” were the words -- and in movie theaters all across America, evidently, women took hold of their boyfriends’ or husbands’ hands when they heard it, and commented that these were some of the most romantic words one person could utter to another.
Now, I am as romantic as they come, but one thing I don’t look for is any other human being (lover or child) to make me a whole person. That responsibility rests with myself alone. I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately -- as a single person, who lives alone much of the time, but also one who believes in love. So I decided to share with you an essay I wrote a few months back that I call Someone Like Me, But Younger. It’s partly about this you-complete-me concept, and about growing older, and living on my own -- an experience that sometimes feels lonely, and sometimes wonderful. And sometimes a combination of both. But being alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. And I have this idea that if I am ever to decide not to live alone anymore -- a concept that both interests and terrifies me -- I’d have to feel, first, that the impulse came not out of any sense of loneliness or incompleteness, but just the opposite. I have the most to give, I think, when I’m most happy and fulfilled on my own. And nobody’s responsible for making that happen but my own self.
At the moment -- maybe because I’ve now spent two full months on the shores of my favorite lake in the world, in the place I always feel the least stressed -- I am about as happy and relaxed as a Type-A person like me ever gets. I was due to leave Lake Atitlan last week and return to my home in Mill Valley, California -- but I couldn’t bring myself to leave, so I extended my stay here. So this letter comes to you from the lake, still -- where I’ll be staying for another few weeks (with a brief trip back home to teach one of my one-day memoir workshops). I miss my friends, and some foods I can’t find here (though the fresh avocados and mangoes mostly make up for those). But truthfully, the longer I live this way -- detached from so much of the busyness of life back in the U.S., the happier and more relaxed I feel. No doubt one reason is that I start every day listening to birds out my window, watching the sunrise over the volcano, and take a swim, followed by a delivery, by a woman here in the village, of blue corn tortillas wrapped in a hand woven cloth, still warm. It’s hard for any day that starts this way not to go well, I have discovered.
I wanted to let you know that this Friday, March 28, my home here on the shores of Lake Atitlan will be featured in the New York Times “Escapes” column. To me, this is not so much a place I think of as escaping to, but more so, immersing myself in. I hope the pictures accompanying the article will convey the beauty of the place. And as you know, it’s an ongoing hope of mine to inspire others, back in the so-called “first world” to share with me the experience of leaving behind stressful jobs, cars, televisions, ringing phones, and even beloved family members -- if only for a week -- and spend a week with me here at one of my writing workshops. Because our February gathering was such a big success, I decided to host a July workshop this year, where I’ll be teaching memoir, joined by Dorianne Laux teaching poetry and Ann Hood, fiction and memoir. You can read more about it on my website, but I wanted to remind you that I’m offering a $100 discount if you register and send in your deposit by April 5. (I’m extending that date by a few days to give you a chance to take in the pictures from the New York Times).
Spend a week with Dorianne, Ann and me, and I promise you’ll be inspired in your writing, and that you’ll go home with a new level of depth and strength as a writer. But as you may see if you read over the testimonials from some of the people who attended this past workshop last month, you’re likely to go home with something else less easily quantifiable. Just this morning I got a letter from one of the poets who worked with Jane Hirshfield last month, calling the week here “one of the most magical and life changing weeks of my life.” Here’s a sampling of some of what we’ll be offering again this summer, in addition to the workshop sessions themselves: Early morning swimming and sauna (and great local coffee) at my house (optional, naturally). Great fresh fruit for breakfast. Outdoor yoga in the garden. Private conferences. Healthy meals (plus dinners out at all the finest restaurants of San Marcos, where the fare ranges from fresh caught fish and tapas to Oaxeno Pie De Limon). Local artesan market. Mayan chocolate. Mojitos at sunset. Hikes to other villages, and a chance to learn about Mayan culture and environmental sustainability of the lake. Kayaking. Great massages for a fraction the cost of a massage at home. Readings of student work by the fire. The incomparable company of a group of other writers of all ages, who share the same adventuresome spirit. An optional add-on day exploring the beautiful colonial town of Antigua. A blow-out last night party with wood fired pizza and late night sauna and swimming at my house. And quiet, uninterrupted time to write, in one of the most beautiful places on the planet.
For those of you who are interested, but unsure, I‘ve put together a Lake Atitlan information packet, which I’ll send you by email if you drop me a note. The packet will fill you in on lots of the particulars about getting to Guatemala (and being here), hotel options, what to wear, what to bring, what your day will be like, and answers to most commonly asked questions. (Do you need shots? NO! Are bugs a problem? Much less so than back home in summer, probably. What’s the weather like? Warm. Sunny. But not humid or uncomfortably hot. What if I’ve never been to a writing workshop before? Wonderful. You’ll be off to a great start. Writers of all levels are welcome here.) Perhaps the most commonly asked question I get about coming to Guatemala is this one: Is Guatemala safe? I want to assure you that my team of helpers and I take very, very good care of you, from the moment you step off the plane. This is a third world country -- which means, it’s simple, rustic, and a little rough around the edges, but I believe you will come to feel that those same qualities are part of what is most special about the place. And our great team of helpers -- The Jovenes Mayas -- do everything they can to assist you with bags, questions, and a watchful eye. We haven’t lost a writer yet.
On the subject of safety and danger -- and inspired, in part, by the fact that I’m writing this letter to you on my son Charlie’s 26th birthday -- I thought I would share with you an essay I wrote a while back (originally performed at The Moth in New York City) called Love is the Best Art of All. (Some of you who have subscribed to this newsletter may have read this one at some other point). It’s about the impulse felt by every parent I know (but I probably suffered from a particularly strong case of this) to protect her children from pain and loss. And the impossibility of ever succeeding at such a task. The kind of pain
I talk about in the essay -- and the kind that haunted me most, as a parent
-- had to do less with physical injury than with sorrow, grief, and emotional
pain. As most of my friends have heard me say -- when they have asked
me if I feel safe in Guatemala (which I do): All the hardest things that
ever happened to me took place in the state of New Hampshire. With friendship,
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Dear
Friends,
