- Mar 30, 2019
Mary Hambidge recently lured me along a winding road back to a state of awe. It was a journey long overdue. I can’t thank her enough.
You say you’ve never heard of Mary Hambidge? She began life as Mary Crovatt, born into an affluent Brunswick, Georgia, family in 1885. She was a redheaded firecracker. As a young woman, she ran away to New York to become a Vaudeville performer. There, she fell in love with Jay Hambidge, a designer whose theory of “dynamic symmetry” influenced a collection of jewelry at Tiffany and Company and a line of automobiles at Chrysler.
Jay's research took the two to Greece, where he continued to link the proportions of nature to the elements of classic Greek design. Mary meanwhile learned to weave with varied textures and vibrant colors. The two never married, but Mary did take Jay’s last name. She also embraced his belief that creativity is best nurtured by working closely with nature.
After Jay's death, Mary opened what is today known as The Hambidge Center in Rabun Gap, Georgia. Situated on 600 acres in the north Georgia mountains, Hambidge provides a place of refuge for creative thinkers to get away and...well, create.
I’ve long imagined Woolf’s room-of-one’s own theory to be true but never found myself in a position to test it. I never pictured myself living a literary life. Until Hambidge.
Don’t get me wrong. I am a writer. At least, that’s a big part of how I make a living in the day-to-day work world. I write grants to fund public health initiatives. In most people’s eyes, including my own, it’s admirable work. I’m proud when I tell people that recently my organization was awarded a $5+ million grant to reduce death rates of pregnant women and infants in low-income, high-risk neighborhoods. This feeds my ego and my sense of professional worth. But here’s the thing: It doesn’t feed my soul.
After work each day, I go home to the man who feeds my heart. We’re empty nesters, Rice and I, and he supports my need for time and space to create. That feeds my soul, having time to think and create. Quiet time. Stillness. The thing is, Rice is gregarious. In the soft of morning, he opens and closes doors with gusto. His slippers shuffle along the floor, and his bottle of V8 makes a glug-glug sound as he pours from it. I can hear his toast popping, the scrape of his knife as he butters it, the crumple of the cereal wrapper as he struggles to open it.
His slippers shuffle again, and then his chair scrapes against the floor. The newspaper crinkles as he battles to open that. From my office, I can hear him chewing, honest to God I can, and I catch the cadence of his breathing between bites.
Why can’t I concentrate?
I bite my tongue, not wishing to bark at this sweet man for having the audacity to live out loud in his own home. Meanwhile, I fume at the keyboard, unable to focus on any kind of story line other than one that involves silencing my husband. I can see the headline in my mind: Woman Arrested for Drowning Husband in Cereal Bowl.
Thankfully, Mary Hambidge provided me a room of my own for a needed March respite. During my Hambidge residency, the Firefox cabin became my own private writing studio for one glorious week. (Photos above are from the Hambidge website.)
Foxfire smelled musty and timeworn. Walking its uneven dark wood floors reminded me of visiting my Grandma Pearl’s old house when I was little. In Firefox, a gas heater warmed the front living area, which housed a bed, an old upright piano, a work table, and a functioning fireplace. Off the back room I found the bathroom, its tub basin stained but clean. On the other side of the back room was a kitchenette, its appliances white and small, its stove’s burner rims lined with foil. Furniture throughout Firefox was well past the stage of gently worn.
What more can I tell you? I loved it.
I wasn’t certain that I would. While I’d lusted for a Hambidge residency for years, I still had last-minute jitters. Would the isolation drive me mad? No TV or Internet. No cell phone service. How would I fill the time? Working solely on my creative writing, 24/7? You know what? I did indeed do that. Even when hiking or dining or—yawn—napping, the work was always with me. That’s the essence of Hambidge. The work and the artist and nature coexist. The stillness melds them all together to breathe, to rest, to explode...all in due time, not time dictated by the outside world.
My favorite place to work in Foxfire was at the backroom table overlooking a deck and the woods. Behind me was a wall-to-wall bulletin board, the old kind with pin tacks for plastering note cards with plot points and character arcs in sequence. There are software programs that do that for you, but I found the tactile act of writing and tacking up the cards oddly satisfying. Sometimes I’d break to walk outside, or to write personal letters to some writer friends and one to some people in the industry whom I don’t know but I admire. Then I’d repeat, eventually hopping into the shower as evening drew near.
While in residency at Hambidge, only three things are mandatory: (1) to join the other artists for the nightly vegetarian meal. (2) to gather around the table before the meal, hand-in-hand, for a moment of silence, and (3) to help set up for the meal and clean up afterwards. Those requirements sounded fair yet frightening. I mean, what if the other residents could tell that I was an imposter, someone who’d slipped through the application process and now sat among the real creatives? What if the other residents were those kinds of artists, you know, the types who are snooty and condescending and full of themselves?
My anxiety eased as I got to know the other residents—three writers (one literary, one contemporary, one culinary), four artists (including a photographer and a ceramicist), one arts administrator (she designs sets and produces plays in Atlanta), and one composer (he’s writing a symphony based on the poetry of A Child's Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson). They were happy to talk about their work...or to listen to someone else do the talking. It was refreshing, not feeling the need to fill the air with my own voice in order to be noticed or taken seriously. Angeles, a mixed-media artist, described it this way: “Pretty much, we’re all a bunch of introverts who come here to focus on our work without so many outside distractions.”
When asked what I was working on, I’d reply, “Commercial fiction.” That was generally met with a nod, but one of the artists, Simen, pressed me. “What does that mean?” What indeed? I’ve never been one of those writers who thinks my work transcends genre. Still, how to define it? It’s not romance or sci-fi. It contains mystery elements, but I wouldn’t call the book itself a mystery. Certainly it’s not a thriller. I don’t think it’s chick lit either.
“I’m writing a novel,” I finally said. “It’s not historical fiction, and it’s not exactly literary.” I paused, struggling with how to describe it better. I shrugged. “I’m no Hemingway. I guess what I’m writing could be considered contemporary fiction.”
Simen nodded. He got it. “Don’t put yourself down,” he said.
I liked that. Simen wasn’t telling me that my work was brilliant or that he had to see it. He was simply affirming my worth as a writer. In a world where creatives often make a pittance and our worth as professionals can get confused with what’s in our bank account, he was sending a message: My writing is important...because it’s important to me. I so needed to hear that, if only to drown out so many contradictory messages I’ve re-played in my mind through the years.
“All you care about is your writing.” Those words came from my own mom, back when my kids were little and we’d just relocated to Atlanta. I’d had several op-eds published in The Atlanta Constitution. I was excited, trying to find my voice as well as places to share it. I had to sneak in writing time during kids’ naps or by getting up in the still of morning, before other duties beckoned and I could no longer hear myself think. Yes, I was tired. Maybe over-stretched at times. But isn’t every working mom?
My own mom’s words stung. They may have been shared as just a throw-away comment, something she thought one second and forgot the next. Still, they stung. And they stuck.
I can’t blame those words in themselves for causing me to take such a long break from creative writing. I can say they unequivocally fed the beast—the constant, nagging self-doubt. Was I neglecting my family? Chasing a hopeless dream? Telling trivial stories that no one else cared about? Even today, I sometimes ask myself, does the world really need another op-ed piece? Or painting? Or blog post?
Does the world really need more art?
My gut reaction: “Maybe the world doesn’t need more art, but I do.” Yet on further reflection, I’d like to edit that statement: “The world does need more art. Absolutely. For all our sakes.” Drawings, sculptures, written works. Photographs, textiles, performances. Color, value, space. Texture. Sound.
Without art, how are we to learn the parts of our past that don’t get put into history books? Without art, what will stimulate creativity and conversation? How will we learn empathy and problem-solving? What will prompt us to expand our ways of thinking?
If the world doesn’t need artists, creators, and thinkers, then the world doesn’t need a place like Hambidge. The beauty of its winding paths and gentle streams is wasted. The sounds of woodland creatures and rustling leaves don’t need to be heard. Nature’s quiet might as well be filled with blaring horns, excess chatter, cell phone pings, piped-in music, pop-up messaging. Noise and more noise. (Nature's quiet as captured at Hambidge, below.)
I’m back home now. The morning’s still and dark. Rice is asleep, but the birds are astir. I enjoy their songs as I sit to write. My mind wanders back to Hambidge.
You know that little gray bird I mused about early in my stay? It was a white-breasted nuthatch. Google told me that, after I got back to the noise and the normal of everyday life, where I have WiFi to help me think. At Hambidge, I had to rely on my own puny brain, a laptop, some hard-covered reference books, and the wonders of nature...the different textures and greens in the moss, the musky scent of the woods, the satisfied warbles from the birds at the feeder.
I loved watching those birds...the nuthatches, thrushes, finches, and robins. A single cardinal visited one day toward the end of my Hambidge residency. Its feathers were an incredible red. As a writer, I’m frustrated that I can’t describe the bird’s utter beauty. I tried to grab my cell phone to capture a photo, but by the time I did, the cardinal was gone.
I’m not sure I believe that cardinals are angels. I’d like to. That would allow me to believe I’d caught a glimpse of Mary Hambidge, stopping to remind me that the state of awe is all around me. Right? That would be sort of cool, actually. Better yet, although perhaps equally woo-woo, what about this? What if that cardinal was my mother’s angel, stopping by to share a thought or two.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” (I can almost hear her voice.) “I never meant for you to stop the creative writing. I just wanted to see you balance it better. With family and friends. And fun.”
You know what else she would have added?
“Now get off your ass and get to work!”
What more can I tell you? I’m in a state of awe (thank you, Mary Hambidge!). Creative ideas are bouncing off the walls of my head. The fiction files on my computer beckon.
I’ve got me some writing to do.
Cheers! J
Updated: Nov 23, 2022
Betcha didn’t know that February was International Friendship Month. Yeah, yeah, I know, the month that just passed. Still, there’s never a bad time to fit in a call or a hug or a shout-out to someone you care about if you haven’t been good about it lately. Right?
Here are a few interesting facts I read about friendship while surfing the net:
Friendship can extend your life.
Animals can have friends, even beyond their species.
Babies can recognize the emotion of friendship at 9 months of age.
I don’t doubt for a moment the importance of friends in my life. Truth is, though, I’m not always a very good friend myself. Reaching out and staying in touch can be difficult. Lucky for me, I have friends who understand me (they tolerate my introversion). They are better about calling or texting. They keep us in touch.
During February my friend Kathy invited me and two other women to spend a weekend playing at her house. (In this instance, playing means being pampered.) She instigated an overdue gathering of our Happy Hour, a group of four women who met at a neighborhood pool in 1991. Back then we were all Southern transplants suddenly living the lives of stay-at-home moms with young kids. Somehow pool gatherings evolved into Friday afternoon whine-over-wine dates (white Zin, veggies and dip for us; Kool-Aid and Cheetos for the kids). We were there for one another...when our littles stepped on our hands...when our trying teens stomped on our hearts. When our Happy Hour kids celebrated graduations and marriages, we were right there leading the toasts. The most recent jewels in our crowns? Welcoming grands to the Happy Hour fold.
At our recent Happy Hour get-together we enjoyed more upscale wine, private rooms and baths, fresh flowers and peppermint soap, an afternoon of boutique shopping, and a two-hour long dinner out. My friends even played along with my suggestion that we each choose and share a personal word of the year, our theme, so to speak, to help keep us moving forward.
I can’t deny that I miss the long-ago years when I saw my friends more often (and we could party later into the night). Yet I relish our friendship today. Isn’t it magical that an acquaintance can become a friend, and then maybe even a good friend, or perhaps the quintessential intimate friend? Isn’t it healthy for us to allow our friendships to ebb and flow and transform throughout the different stages of our lives?
Having a ton of friends has never been that important to me. Having friends I can trust and strongly connect with has. Knowing I’ve lost connection with friends who’ve meant a great deal to me throughout the years...well, that’s on me. I won’t beat myself up for it, but I’ll try to do better. Each friend has opened up a world in me, whether we’ve crossed paths in school, through our love of art and writing, at church, through family ties, in the ‘hood, at work, during book club, or through myriad other avenues that slip my mind at the moment. I enjoy having friends (or good acquaintances) who are not a mirror image of me but who are of different cultures and different generations.
Speaking of different generations, does anybody really do friendship like a kid?
Given that kids are such experts at friendship and the art of play, I thought I'd ask my almost seven-year-old grandson Britton for a few of his views on friendship. Here's part of our discussion:
Me: “What is a friend?”
Britton: “A friend is someone you play with a lot...or you know a lot about them.”
Me: “What’s a good way to make a friend?”
Britton: “Start to know them …and start playing with them. Start talking about yourself. Tell them what you like, and you tell them what you don’t like. They might have something in common. Then they might say “’Let’s be friends.’”
Me: [trying to come up with a less sterile word for ‘acquaintance’] “What do you call someone who’s not your friend yet but you think they could become one?”
Britton: [thinking....] “Well, first I ask them their name. And when they tell me it, that’s what I call them.”
Me: “Do you think there are different kinds of friends?”
Britton: “Yes. They might have differences like they don’t have anything in common. If I have two friends that aren’t friends, I’ll ask them to see if they’re related somehow. They might have questions, and I’ll see if they like the same type of [TV] show. But it’s okay if it’s not the same. Having differences is okay.”
Me: “What are some words you’d use to describe a good friend?”
Britton: “Funny. Playful. Hilarious. Kind. Strong. Weird. Kind of interesting (knowing a lot of interesting stuff).”
Me: “Do your friends ever drive you crazy?”
Britton: “No. Not that much.”
Me: “Anything else you have to say about friends?”
Britton: “No, I’m all out.”
(Me again here.) Yeah, I know, the month to celebrate friendship is pretty much over. Still, there’s never a bad time to fit in a call or a hug or a shout-out to someone you care about if you haven’t been good about it lately. Even better, won’t you join me in vowing to celebrate our friendships all year long? I mean, friends rock. Don't you agree?
Cheers! J
- Jan 17, 2019
(This post is in memory of my mother Grace on what would have been her 86th birthday.)
Eighty-six years ago today, a baby was born in a small farming community in the thumb of Michigan. Her name was Grace, and she would eventually become my mom. The year she was born, unemployment raged at 25 percent, the Nazis took power in Germany, and Babe Ruth hit 34 home runs. She died of ovarian cancer in 2012, the year the Mayan calendar predicted the world would end. Yet here we are. (Below: Grace in her high school graduation picture in the 1950s.)
LIFE WITH GRACE. I wanted to remember Grace in a special way today. But how? I considered sharing some of the things she taught me. She was a woman of adages: “Don’t lie.” “Never wear ratty underwear.” “Actions speak louder than words.” Yet those lessons seem somewhat “meh,” like Velveeta cheese on Ritz crackers. Grace was more like baked brie with pecan crumble on crisp apples. She was more like what musicians know as a grace note: a note added to embellish a harmony or melody. Grace was quite often that. An embellishment. A sometimes not so subtle grace note.
(Below, Grace celebrating marriage in the 1960s [look at her delicate shoes!].)
THE GOOD. Life with Grace was far from boring. She was a tiny woman and perhaps a tiny bit vain, too. She loved dressing “to the nines,” with shoes and a purse to match her outfit. Her shoes had to be custom ordered, a size 5-1/2 narrow with a AAA heel. Grace relished dressing us up, too; she liked for her five daughters to be noticed. She adored entertaining…laughing…playing bridge…hosting dinner parties…decorating and re-decorating her house.
(Below, me long ago, all dressed up by Grace.)
THE BAD. Growing up with Grace was not all lollipops and laughs. She could be quite critical. You could usually tell disapproval was coming when she squinted her eyes before speaking. (“Janet, why isn’t this A- an A?” or “Jan, what do you think about our joining Weight Watchers together this Saturday?”) Have I mentioned she wasn’t always subtle?
Grace wasn’t big on issuing apologies either (deserved or not). Nor was she a huge fan of PDA (public show of affection). I used to attribute this to her stoic English-German roots. In retrospect, I think being vulnerable scared her. She was widowed three times. Her longest marriage was six years. I’ve come to wonder if brushing off her feelings made her pain a little less real. Married or alone, she had five girls to raise. Perhaps she just expected us to “get” it, to understand that she had to be strong.
(Below, Grace being strong, taking four of her five daughters on a cruise of the Saint Lawrence Seaway to visit Expo '67 in Montreal.)
THE SHARP. Never one for self-pity, Grace embraced life. She enjoyed several careers through the years. She was court reporter before raising her family. In later years, she worked as a realtor and then an international tour guide, leading travel groups on train trips through Canada and Europe. She went back to college in her sixties for a degree in interior design. She was ambitious, smart, and well-intentioned. She loved to share her fun and generous spirit.
(Below, Grace with her five daughters and three of her granddaughters on a cruise to Mexico in the 1980s.)
THE PREPOSTEROUS. Have I mentioned yet that Grace could be a bit of a flake? When our kids were little, she’d bring them small presents whenever she visited. Our son Daniel must have been around eight when Grace came laden with a gift that made her particularly giddy. Her excitement was contagious, and we all gathered around to watch. She handed Daniel the gift, a rubber hand. “Put this on your shoulder,” she told him, “and press the button. See, it moves!” Indeed, the hand did move—one finger on it, at least. Oh, yeah. Inadvertently, my mother had bought our son … let’s just call it a battery-operated intimate adult novelty device. “The Hand” is still remembered fondly during many a family gathering.
(Below, Grace enjoyed receiving gifts as well as giving them. If only we'd captured a picture of Daniel opening "The Hand"....)
HER LEGACY…ABRIDGED. Looking back, I guess I did learn some fairly deep lessons from Grace, whether she meant me to or not. For one, I never hesitate to say “I love you.” (You never know if you’ll get another chance.) For another, I try to emulate how she maneuvered life’s detours. She trekked through tough and tragic times to round the bend…just in case more joy and adventure awaited. Mostly, though, I try to live by one of her other adages: “Get over yourself and laugh.” It’s not always easy, but it definitely makes life much more delicious.
(Below, it would please Grace to know that her daughters are still hanging out for the occasional adventure [here at the Weather Channel in Atlanta].
Here’s to magnificent memories of life with Grace on her eighty-sixth birthday! May her lessons continue to creep up unexpected, like a subtle grace note in the wind.
