Interrupt Me For Rainbows
Uninterrupted time to write is a luxury—but so is a community that will interrupt you for beauty.
As I drove through a severe rainstorm in the Adirondacks during a tornado warning last night, I began telling a story to the fellow artists in my car, Jess and Michi. I was in mid-sentence when suddenly Jess said, “Look! Ahead!” Across the sky in front of us spread an enormous rainbow. “I’m sorry to interrupt your story,” she said. “But I was afraid we’d miss it.”
“Please,” I told her, “Always interrupt me for rainbows.”
There have been so many rainbows over the past two weeks. While I have been spending productive hours working on my novel here at the Craigardan artists’ residency, I am regularly and delightfully interrupted by metaphorical rainbows: cooking and eating meals with my beloved fellow artists; engaging in intimate conversations about our work, our relationships, sex, pets, and food; climbing mountains; or spending time in parallel play, each of us curled up in our communal space with our own work. I am grateful for each of these inspirational interruptions, as they have been feeding not only my work but my soul.
In the evenings, we have fallen into the habit of gathering in the Applebarn after supper. One recent night, ceramicist Karina and artist Audrey were both reading in armchairs; musician Michi was playing with sound, attaching transducers to ceramic bowls; writer Jess was giggling with her girlfriend on the phone just outside,: ceramicist Emily was working on her laptop; and I was watching the end of a movie (we’d watched it together the night before, but I went to bed before the end so was catching up). We felt like a family, all hanging out in the living room after dinner. I treasure this. I will be so sad to lose it when I leave tomorrow morning. This community feels fertile and supportive in all ways.
I’m leaving one day early for a very good reason—to go watch my daughter’s very first play! Her summer theatre camp held a playwrighting competition, and Theadora’s play was one of five plays chosen for production at camp. She is also directing it, learning a ton in the process. I’ve not heard her sounding this happy in at least a year. It fills me with joy to hear her so busy with rewarding work and connected with her fellow theatre artists. Last week she performed in a camper showcase (for which she had to audition), and received a standing ovation for her performance of an Antigone monologue in French.
She is constantly noting the differences in teaching styles and behaviors between France and the US. “American boys are so friendly!” she said. “Not like French boys. And in France if you hang out with a boy everyone is like ooh lala you’re in love, whereas here you can just be friends.” Score one for America! She is a little frustrated that her teachers here are less direct than the French, cushioning all of their criticism and making oblique comments like, “I am intrigued to discover why you decided to make that choice.” She would rather the criticism be straightforward. She said she almost missed the direct criticisms of French teachers, who don’t cushion anything. You always know exactly where you stand.
Hearing from Theadora always feels like being interrupted by rainbows.
Some other unexpected rainbows this week: One afternoon I climbed nearby Hurricane Mountain, a delicious hike. I’ve done it before, but not for years. At the top, I ran into a man I’d passed on my way up and we started talking. After we’d discussed mountains and books and the need for free universal healthcare, I asked what he did for work, and he said, “I’m a doctor. Actually, I’m an oncologist at Memorial Sloan Kettering.” He began to explain what Sloan Kettering was and I said, “I know. I’m in treatment for cancer.” And so we talked cancer for awhile, and he asked about my CA125 and remission. I apologized for talking cancer with him on a day off. “Everyone must do this to you!” I said. He said he knew the OB/GYN cancer oncologist at MSK if I needed someone there.
“Look,” he finally said, “shall I give you my phone number? In case you need a contact at Sloan Kettering? I’ll give you my cell.” And he did! That interaction alone made me euphoric all the way down.
One night, we all headed to a nearby town to spend the evening contra dancing. A whole new way to mingle with the broader community! It was fun to see Emma, the farm manager, in an elegant dress, and to swing each other around the room. I can’t say we were particularly adept, but our confusion only made us laugh harder.
Little interrupting rainbows everywhere: One evening, I took a storytelling workshop with a man named Yoko, whose personality doesn’t fit into the confines of letters. One morning my cohort and I went out to breakfast at Old Mountain Coffee in Keene Valley, where I ran into a woman who went to Oberlin with me, and whose son once climbed mountains with Theadora at the Adirondack Trail Improvement Society camp. Yesterday evening, a Ukrainian woman who attended my presentation of my work said she knew about Igor Savitsky, a focus of my new novel. It was such a pleasure to talk with her about him. Karina and Emily made a dinner of a million mezzes. I cooked blueberry buckwheat pancakes for breakfast. I spent hours picking and eating wild blackberries. In the mornings I’ve been doing ballet in the Applebarn.
While here, I have also been working at the farm store, where we sell our produce and meats and other local and organic items. It is the kind of place where many people come in more to chat than because they particularly need something. It’s a community hub. On my first day at the store, a couple of women came by to donate their compost to our chickens. Another woman came by to ask if she could use some of the borage growing wild here to make flour or something else. “I know when the plants are ready—they come knocking!” she said. “You have to ask the borage four questions before picking it. You ask it if it would like to participate in the making of (whatever you are making with it).” At least two people came in just to visit Alice, the store cat. Alice is cuddly and warm with humans and lethal to vermin.
Today I am working my second shift. I’ve already had a long conversation with a woman battling breast cancer, and learned about a new kind of acupuncture. Occasionally I see women wander down the porch to check out what is in our Free Food refrigerator.
Later that week…
Here I am, having emerged from the cocoon of my cohort. Leaving the creative intimacy of our group and emerging into the real world tears a little bit at my soul. But I had a beautiful drive down to Loch Sheldrake Sunday to see Theadora’s play. The day before the show, she rang me in floods of tears. The dress rehearsal had been disastrous, she said. The actors didn’t remember their lines or their blocking. She was worried no one would get to hear the words she actually wrote. I reminded her that disastrous dress rehearsals mean a brilliant performance, and she said, “Yes, but when every rehearsal is disastrous?” Ah, the joy of a collaborative art.
When we arrived, she was happily chatting with her fellow playwrights. They’ve formed a tight and supportive community, encouraging each other every step of the way. It made me so happy to see her with friends.
And the show went beautifully! It was fun to get to see all of the plays, as well as Theadora’s play, Arabella. Her actors gave moving performances and remembered their lines. I was also impressed by the audience, the entire population of the camp. They could not have been more supportive and enthusiastic, reacting to every turn of plot, giving the playwrights standing ovations. It felt like a terrific group of young people.
Afterwards, as we walked around with Theadora, people kept coming up to hug her and tell her how amazing her play was. It’s the opposite of her experiences this past year in France, where no one has embraced her. I almost wept with happiness that she had found her people.
So we both have had a rewarding time at summer camp! The morning I left the Adirondacks, everyone got up early to say goodbye and help me with my luggage. As we stood at the car, Karina said, “How is it possible that two weeks ago we didn’t know each other?” It feels we have been together for years. In real life, I talk to my dearest friends too rarely and briefly; they are so far from me. At Craigardan, I had the luxury of nonstop conversation with these women for weeks. They waved until I was out of sight.
Later that day I got a text from the group, a photo of them all spreading their arms under an enormous rainbow. “Jennifer!” they wrote. “We’re interrupting you for a rainbow!”
PS: I finished the first draft of a new novel.
PPS: Jess has promised to write a guest column for Liminal, so you can look forward to hearing from her soon! I can’t wait.
This sounds like a much needed infusion of joy, for you and Theodora. I'm really happy for both of you!