Growth and Renewal

Dear reader and friend,

Thank you for being here. Maybe you were a reader of my last blog, The Wholly Middle, where I wrote about my experience caring for my mother while she had Alzheimer’s with the help of eight caregivers while also being present to my four children and husband. You may remember that I focused on the beauty and many blessings I received during those challenging days. Two essential things remain with me from caring for my mother with the help of Team Catarina, a name the women and I created for ourselves. One, I live with no regrets when I think about my mother and her suffering. Her dying wish was to remain in the comfort of her home until she took her last breath. I did everything I could to give this to her and with the help of quality care, though it was not easy, I succeeded. And two, I witnessed something extraordinary that, to some people, may seem ordinary. In a society where self-serving attitudes are often loud, I found the unselfish love and quiet care my mother’s caregivers provided extraordinary. I don’t have sisters, but I quickly gained eight with the women who found joy in helping my mother’s wish come true not expecting anything in return.

After my mother died, I wrote a few blog posts through the fog of grief. When the first Lenten season came around, I aimed to write reflections from Our Lady of the Sofa, my mother’s sixty-year-old kidney-shaped sofa she could never part with, which no one else wanted but felt free to offer their opinions of how she should rid of it, and which I decided to save, freshen up and reupholster. My pen faded on those reflections as the world slowed and changed during COVID-19. Suddenly, I had a house full of young adult children, which I knew was easier than having grade school children learn arithmetic through computer screens. I bought loaded carts and carts of groceries for the bigger appetites living under my roof and meal planned successfully for the first time in my life. With encouragement from my aunt, a former high school English teacher, I took a few online creative writing classes, leading me to take online art history classes from Florence, Italy. After my mother died, I wanted to surround myself with two of her interests that influenced my life: the arts and Italy. It was naturally happening, but I wanted more. I wanted to study writing more seriously. I was sure I had not intentionally studied writing since Mrs. Smith’s eighth-grade English class. 

I discovered a small liberal arts college in mid-mitten Michigan was launching a low-residency MFA in Creative Writing Program. The director was a writer who was a keynote speaker at a writing conference I once attended. I applied to the program. And got accepted. In June 2021, I started with the first cohort in the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program at Alma College. Every June and January, I spent ten days living, eating, and learning with other writers for two years. Our ages ranged from twenty-three to seventy-three. We came from different backgrounds, states, races, and genres. Our common ground was the art of writing, and through writing, we became a dynamic community recognizing the importance of every voice and every written word. 

In between the ten-day residencies, I worked remotely. My meal-planning days vanished as quickly as my mind often did, either in a book or while writing across a page. Five days before an assignment deadline was the unofficial announcement that someone else in the house was responsible for the stove or call for carry-out from Cida Thai or Lucca’s Pizzeria & Ristorante. For two solid years, I read widely. I wrote creative nonfiction essays, short critical papers that were a great challenge, a critical thesis on the writing style and autonomous life of Italian author Elena Ferrante, and a creative manuscript now resting on my desk. Yes! I have written a book I am allowing to catch its own breath while I tend to its revision slowly. After all, even a silver tray is livelier and feels lighter when polished and centered on a dining table. When I publish this book, yes, when not if although I don’t know when that when is, I want to hand it to someone with polishing gloves draped over my hands, a comforting offering from my fingertips that guided a pen through notebooks bleeding out words to befriend the heart of a reader to know that none of us are alone and beauty is the balm to soften grief. 

The Birch Chronicle will be a cheerful branch to center us, you, the reader, and me, the writer, on love, beauty, light, joy, and the grace of being alive! Perfectionism is not my goal. My goal is to connect with hearts, even if it is one, make sense of the world, savor the good in the human family, and uplift the spirit that longs to ease loneliness no matter where that loneliness comes from. I plan to settle in sturdy roots that help us grow together rather than separate. I have replanted myself in the refreshed name for the blog because the birch tree is my favorite tree. Her white leather bark is like a lighthouse when the rest of the forest is thick with darkness. When her skin shreds from the tree stump, she reveals wisdom in her shiny gold leather papyrus. The birch tree symbolizes new beginnings, growth, and purification. The Birch Chronicle allows me to begin again with a fresh expansion of written ideas and curiosity about life. It feels splendid. I am excited to explore writing about life through art, books, culture, and travel, topics always woven through my writing. And I know she will appear even if I try not to write about her. My mother continues to show up in my writing. I will not be surprised if caregiving, Alzheimer’s and dementia, and perhaps the difficulties of caregiving that often aren’t talked about, which threaten to disrupt the blessings, appear in a story. If I am honest, when life throws stubborn weeds in our garden, it takes intention to not let them overrun the blooms of celosia, lantana, sunflowers, and moonflowers. 

With The Birch Chronicle, I also hope to inspire and preserve the love of reading by offering Diane’s Book Reviews written by avid reader, writer, and book reviewer Diane Dachota. You can learn more about Diane under About The Birch Chronicle. This week, she reviewed Happiness Falls by Angie Kim, a mystery about a Korean American family in which one of the members has Angelman syndrome. Please read Diane’s review. The book is an excellent option to explore. 

Until I write to you again, I wish you moments of laughter and hours of peace. Every day is a beginning. Rush slowly and be surprised.

Marie