Please join me for an interview and reading with Suze Allen this Sunday. Click HERE to join.
Online Reading Sunday December 1st at 7 PM EST
Accepting New Students
Shifts
Oh no, not again. Summer’s ending. Sigh.
I love the sunshine, the bright early dawns, the heat, the beach. But today I woke up to darker than before, and rain. And I felt sad and sorry because summer makes me giddy with the light, the smell of back yard grilling, the tingle of ocean water, the comfort of picnics. I am never ready to let that all go.
But today, I had to admit, summer is done.
Apparently something inside of me shifted with this admission because this morning something different happened: I wrote.
It’s been hard to write. Why write when there’s so much fun to be had? But my fun is geared toward being outside and basking in the light. So today I had to try something else. And it was not easy. It was frustrating and discouraging to see my words fail so utterly to represent what I wanted, to evoke what I was trying to evoke. I realized I’m way out of practice. And after months of play, the writing felt like WORK. And I wanted to give up. I did give up, but I only gave up a little bit. I mean, I quit, but then every time I threw up my hands in disgust at my lack of skill, I brought my eyes back to the page, and I kept going. After a while, I jumped to a whole different project in the middle of trying to conquer some pages that need so much work. That felt like a failure until I realized I didn’t entirely give up. I only shifted.
And I let myself stop after I got tired. (An hour or two of writing wears me out.) I turned away from the words to the mental quiet of household tasks, cooking, washing dishes, folding laundry. I took my breakfast outside where I noticed that the rain made things smell like dark spices and mint. As I sat with my eggs beside the dead daisies and the blooming dahlias, I noticed something. I noticed that my mind had entered a different groove. No longer the linear, rushing, get it done, get it up on the internet, get the messages answered groove that it’s usually in, hurrying to get my work turned in so I can go out and play. A new groove. A groove that was once familiar but I haven’t been in for a while. This groove is wider. It meanders. There is space. There is a floating quality to it that I haven’t felt for a while. It feels good.
So I think I cannot be too sad about the seasonal shift. I must remember that leaving the long, luxurious, sunny days behind is not a total loss, that there is something to be gained in curling into these darker days ahead, the cooler air outside. When winter comes, I will be ready, pen in hand, for more time to create, to be quiet and still, to find space, to explore and listen in to me.
Catharine H. Murray, Author Now You See the Sky (Akashic Books, 2018)
September 20, 2024
Portland, Maine
Now enrolling new students. To Register for Classes with Catharine starting in October, click here.
Memoirs on the Marsh: connection, instruction, and inspiration to write your stories.
“The weekend reaffirmed that I have something worthwhile to say and I can find a way through writing to say it.”
“It reminded me that I’m a writer. I left the first night crying tears of joy.”
“The mix of lavish food offerings, periods of reflection, direct instruction, and personal writing time was perfect.”
| The first Memoirs on the Marsh weekend in August was such a hit that have one more Women’s Writing Weekend on the Marsh scheduled for September 20 – 22, 2024 with a few spots still left in this small group experience. For more information and to register, click here or email memoirsonthemarsh@gmail.com |
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Our first Memoirs on the Marsh weekend confirmed my belief that connection supports creativity and that writing our stories is a transformative experience. What an honor it was to guide these brave women as they supported one another in their journey to unearth and write the stories of their lives. What started as a roomful of strangers Friday night soon became a tight band of warrior writers. It was a privilege for me to be part of this unfolding and reclaiming as everyone began the process of writing herself back to wholeness. And each left inspired to continue with her writing practice after the weekend ended. Leigh Kellis fueled our work and play with delicious decadent meals, home baked treats, wine and organic coffee throughout. Her lovely home on the edge of the Scarborough Marsh afforded writing nooks and sunny spaces for all to discover their words without distraction. And in the evening, she even played the piano so we could sing our favorite songs (and dance!). |
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| Sunday evening Kim Smith, author of Unbelievable Freedom, shared her story of self-publishing her memoir and going on to sell 17,000 copies of her books. Her talk was down-to-earth, intelligent and insightful. We didn’t want to stop asking questions afterward. Memoirs on the Marsh has one more Women’s Writing Weekend scheduled for September 20 – 22, 2024 with a few spots still left. For more information and to register, click here or email memoirsonthemarsh@gmail.com |
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| “The marsh was the perfect back drop for healing, hoping and finding my voice.” |
| Click for more information about Memoirs on the Marsh |
Joy Krinsky’s short essay “In One Box” published by Epistemic Lit
Click below to read or listen to Joy read on the Epistemic Lit site. Or scroll down to read here.
Written by Joy E. Krinsky
One of the jewels of my Portland neighborhood is the Evergreen Cemetery. Wandering
among the paths and lanes of history, there is always something new to notice. A name, a statue, a date, a symbol, something broken, repaired, worn, unnamed. “Mother.” “Father.” “Baby.” “Our Darling.”
And many named as well and well recognized: Dow, Fessenden, Stevens. And of course
Baxter, of city and state government renown. The Baxter family monument is in Evergreen. And several neighborhood streets are named for Baxter children. Alba (d. 1873 at age 4) is my street. Mabel (d. 1865 at 5 mos.) is the next street over. These two young girls’ grave markers are part of the Baxter monument. An interpretive sign nearby includes a photo inset of the original cemetery log, with a notation beside Mabel’s and Alba’s names: “in one box.”
Though born and died years apart, whose namesake streets lie side by side, so too do these
young sisters in their final resting place.
It continues to astonish me—not really surprise me—but still captivates my imagination.
These two girls. Died years apart. But, “in one box.”
***
David was cremated.
His is the first family death—for me—which was not a cemetery burial, not a body in a
plain pine coffin loosely closed with wooden pegs, lowered into the ground, and dirt by handfuls, and then shoveled, to cover it as El Maleh Rachamim is intoned.
So now there are ashes. In a bag. In a box. In a carton. On a shelf. In a cabinet. In a house.
Maybe it is the Jewishness of me that it seems so strange to have the remains of a body in my house. And, too, the novelty of it is still astonishing. Not surprising, but it does capture my imagination.
There are some benefits I suppose. One is that these ashes can be split up, distributed, shared, buried in multiple locations, dispersed to the wind or the sea. “Final resting place” becomes a
multitude of places.
Having no permanent marker is different.
No place to return to, and place a stone as is the Jewish custom, is certainly different.
And no family plot is certainly different as well.
So now I am faced with questions and decisions regarding David but also regarding myself.
All those deferred decisions and choices and planning, well—there is no one else. Since it is only me now. Only me. Time to get this together so my children will not be burdened with these questions and decisions.
Thoughts of my own “final arrangements” come to the forefront.
I think about home, what is deeply my home. Is Maine my real home? And if not, is it my
children’s home? If I am buried here in Portland in one of the Jewish—or not so Jewish—
cemeteries, perhaps on some long drive, or not so long at a rest stop at the side of the road, eyes will be cast downward, to the earth below, to find that stone—whether smooth or craggy, round or flat, brown or gray, heavy or light—to place upon it when they get there. Then Samuel and Tova will have an opportunity, hopefully many opportunities—to place a stone on my grave.
Though I haven’t made up my mind or made any plans, or am close to decisions, I do think
that no matter what happens with David’s ashes—whether they are split among family, or cast to his beloved Casco Bay from aboard the sea taxi, or in the Tanzanian countryside that he longed to see—at least a portion, a part, a dram, hopefully the part that I did love and that did love me, I will hold with me, and have buried with me. In one box.
.
Joy E. Krinsky began writing in the summer of 2019 with the obituary, and later eulogy, for her husband. Since that time, she has studied healing through writing, and is currently working on a memoir, Every Little Thing. Two of her essays were published by HerStry in 2023: “Sacred Text” as one of the Women of Faith essays and “Darkest Night” was a Winter Stories essay.
Her memoir is described here:
Following the suicide of her husband, Joy E. Krinsky embarks on a journey of self exploration and discovery. Grief is now a kaleidoscope lens through which she experiences the world. Room by room, season by season, family relations, the everyday items that make a life that has been abruptly shaken up and shifted. Through this collection of essays, she invites us on this journey, recovering the past, creating the future, and discovering the richness of the present.
Joy E. Krinsky lives in Portland, Maine.
Catharine H. Murray 