Berkshire Festival of Women Writers: What Do We Say?

March in the Berkshires is a month-long celebration of women writers with readings, panel discussions, and workshops. Since I'm on sabbatical this semester, I had the rare opportunity to participate in many of the events, and I developed a dual perspective on giving and receiving "dark" material. What do we say when someone reads or speaks of grief and loss?

On the first weekend of the festival, I read a few of my Widow's Log pieces in a group presentation called "Women of a Certain Age," along with other writers of fiction and poetry. Since my material was heavy and based on personal experience, I prepared the audience in advance by telling them that I was reading about events that had occurred five years ago. I said that I wasn't in the same place or frame of mind as I had been when I was first living through my husband's death and my bereavement. I also told them that I would be reading three pieces, so they could pace themselves, and I was careful to present a variety of moods, ending with "Lighten Up."

My attention to setting up the material had come from previous presentations, where some of the people in the audience had responded to me personally rather than to my writing. Who can blame them? I'm writing in the first-person. I felt this. I did that. But the I who felt and did whatever five years ago is not the same person as the one at the podium reading today. The passing of time, the living of life, and the act of writing has transformed me.

I write and give readings today to explore a crucial life experience and articulate feelings for others in grief. I do it to break through the isolation and (I hope) to uplift. I do it to let others know what it's like to lose a mate or any loved one. But I know it's uncomfortable for many people to hear. If I were writing fiction in the third person, both I and the non-bereaved in the audience would have more  psychic distance.

After the reading, people came from the audience to speak with the readers. They focused on the fiction and poetry writers' works. When they came to me, some spoke of my courage. This was meant kindly, but, to be honest, courage has nothing to do with it. I'm simply writing what I know, filtered through my perspective and accessed over time. That's what writers do, and that's the identity--a writer--that I prefer. One person complimented me on one of my metaphors. I particularly liked that. But the most important person to approach me was a woman who had been widowed a couple of years ago. She told me about a few of her experiences that my pieces had evoked for her. I just listened. I think she seemed relieved.

I wish I could transform my material into fiction. We'd all have more breathing room, but it's just not my medium right now.  I find writing (and reading) memoir most compelling. After living through the deaths of my husband and parents, I'm drawn to the blatant truth--ungilded and disorganized. I find satisfaction in the uncertainty and the disillusionment. I want the truth sayer--grappling with her or his mind, heart, and surroundings. It may not be like that forever, but that's how it is now.

So my focus a week after my reading, when I participated in one of the festival's writing workshops, was on one woman who wrote about her parents' recent and close-together deaths. The others in the circle were upbeat, and what they read evoked smiles and laughter from the listeners. This woman apologized before reading her "dark" material. She apologized again after she'd finished. There was quiet and some sympathetic smiles and nods. Then the circle continued reading on a happier note.

Unlike my writing, this woman was writing from within the darkness. It was raw and so was she. Reading what she had just written within that cheerful circle took real courage, like making a rude noise in public. I doubt that I was the only one who was relieved to hear her dark material, although I was the only one to approach her after we broke. But that's alright. Sometimes the light bulb goes off later in the night.

When I approached the woman (I wish I could remember her name), I thanked her for her important contribution. I told her that it's hard for people to appreciate lightness without acknowledging the presence of shadows. I mentioned that my parents had died too. We commiserated briefly. I didn't tell her about my husband's death. It felt unnecessary and almost like one-upsmanship.

Still, all of my exposure to audience response this month has given me a window into the difficulties of speaking to the bereaved. Not just writers, but anyone in grief. What do we say? Does anything satisfy? What helps in the first days and weeks probably changes over time. I don't think the actual words matter so much as some sort of acknowledgement. Sometimes all we have to do is be present and listen.

We aren't all masters of communication, but when we attempt to break through our isolated lives we are doing good works. For all I know, the woman I spoke with at the writing workshop simply wanted sympathy and not some philosophical comment about light and dark, but I did the best I could and said what I believe. Even the remark to me about courage that I initially disowned at the time of my presentation spurred me to think more deeply and write this piece. What do we say? Something  authentic and kind. What do we do? Listen. Stick around despite the discomfort. That takes courage.