I Brought My Own Pillow

And managed to lose practically everything else.

“You’ll be ok, right?” Tammy asks, as we pull into the Omega Institute parking lot.

“Yes. No. Oh God, why am I nervous?” I say, and we laugh about how silly it is, because I’m attending a weekend writing workshop, not boot camp.

“You’ll do great,” she says, then to my relief, adds, “I’ll help you check in.”

The Welcome Tent shines Clorox-white in the sun, and gives me a momentary jolt of optimism. I hand my bags to the guy at the table, feeling self-conscious, because, in addition to my wheelie and laptop bag, I’ve brought a big white tote.

“I brought my own pillow,” I say, lifting my chin toward the tote.

“He doesn’t care,” Tammy whispers and I laugh.

“My friend says you don’t care and I’m sure she’s right, I wouldn’t either. I just like having my pillow,” I say, which is already too much. But I don’t stop. I talk about how it’s soft, but not too soft.

“I’d bring my own too,” he kindly interrupts, and I want to kiss him, but instead, I laugh. Way too hard.

“I’m a little nervous,” I say.

“She’s never been away from home,” Tammy adds, and we all laugh, but my laughter goes on for an alarmingly long time.

“Let’s start with your name,” he says.

“Nervous Nellie, clearly,” I say and, kindly, he chuckles.

“What’s your last name?” he says, framing it differently.

“Nellie,” I say. I can’t believe I’m prolonging this.

Finally, I get my name out and he tags my bags, saying, “You’re Oak C.”

“I’m Oak C,” I repeat to Tammy.

“You’re Oatsy?” she says and again, I’m hysterical.

“Jesus. Did you slip Ecstasy into my water?” I choke out between laughs.

“You’re just nervous. You’ll see - you’ll meet the nicest people. This is a Cheryl Strayed thing! Everyone will be just like you!”

My Tammy. She hugs me hard and gets back into her car, giving me a “you can do this” nod, but there’s a flicker of worry behind her smile.

I go to the Registration Desk, feeling less sure of myself by the second. I’m surrounded by clusters - friends, sisters, partners - and I wonder why on earth I thought it was so critical that I do this workshop alone.

Conversations and joyful greetings erupt everywhere.

I’m an outsider who keeps talking about her pillow and can’t seem to stop laughing.

They wear leggings, these returning Omega’s, with Birkenstocks or Uggs. There are two workshops this weekend and it’s easy to see who’s who - my gang, the Cheryl Strayed writers are earthy, with an upstate vibe that’s heavy on fleece and flannel. The Yoga Group is younger, fitter, sexier, and with their great posture and midriff-skimming tops, it’s hard not to be jealous.

The woman who registers me scribbles circles and arrows on a map, as she says to go straight, then make a right, then veer left, maybe? God knows. She draws more arrows and I nod as if it makes sense.

I tell myself it will. But it doesn’t. I’m bad at maps, even in the best of times, and I walk in circles for a while. I squint at the map as if it will help. A serious-looking woman, wearing lavender fleece says “you look lost” and I say “that’s an understatement,” but neither of us laughs. She walks me to Oak C as I frantically try to memorize landmarks, but then realize “make right at Adirondack chairs” means nothing when there are Adirondack chairs everywhere.

Oatsy is clean and ready and they’ve delivered my bags. I sigh, because of course - this was all I needed and now things will fall into place. I put my stuff down.

Suitcase.

Tote bag with pillow (because I brought my own pillow, did I mention that?)

Laptop.

Jacket. Wait. Where’s my jacket? I know I took it from Tammy’s car. I check everywhere, including, nonsensically, the bathroom I haven’t entered.

I leave Oatsy, but can’t lock the door, because…I can’t find the key they just gave me. What is happening? I’m flunking Workshop. And I’ve only been here 10 minutes.

I trudge along a path, muttering and shaking my head at my ineptness.

No, this isn’t happening. No, this isn’t me. No, I shouldn’t have come.

I try to walk back to check-in and end up in the parking lot. I smile at the guy I made my hilarious joke to, but he’s much too busy for this Nellie. Somehow, I make my way back to registration.

When the woman who drew the circles and arrows looks up, I say “Me again,” and explain my problem. She tells me they’ll take care of me next door at Guest Services.

“Don’t worry. What we lose always comes back to us,” she says with a wise smile.

“That’s so true,” I say, thinking “That’s so not true.”

I wonder how I’ll bear a whole weekend of wise smiles and pat phrases, and my self-annoyance shifts outwardly.

It’s not me. It’s them.

A woman asks another if she’s going to 6AM stretch class and I all but roll my eyes.

Everyone is so chill, I want to defrost them.

Hey mama, two yoga-clad women say to each other….

“Shut up, mamas,” I think, plowing ahead.

At Guest Services, I wait my turn.

The woman ahead of me asks for a watercolor kit, which they let you check out like library books. Ordinarily, I’d find this charming, but now, I just want my key and jacket.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” the woman says about the watercolors, and I think, “Is it?” She says how relaxing she finds it to paint, and I smile as if I’m part of the conversation, which I think should be over by now.

But.

They talk about watercolors for a full five minutes as I do my best to look relaxed. The Guest Service woman gives me a replacement key, but doesn’t have my jacket. She assures me it will show up.

“Yes. What we lose always comes back to us,” I say before she can.

She nods and says, “Exactly.”

I sigh. And step onto the porch. And there, draped on a bench I don’t remember sitting on, is… my jacket! I hug it to my chest. The joy of finding something you thought you’d lost is so great, it should have its own word.

I start to feel slightly chill (or maybe just less chilly) as I make my way back to Oatsy. But only until I make two wrong turns and find myself barraged with signs - Willow. Maple. Evergreen. All the trees but my tree.

Finally, I find it and get inside, drenched, but relieved. I look in the mirror and take a breath because I’m here. And this is for me.

Somehow (well, by following a group) I make it to the dining hall, where I awkwardly smile and nod my way through dinner and can’t wait to not have to say my name and where I’m from.

At the evening workshop, I grab a seat in the middle of a row. To my left are two women who chat with the over-enthusiasm of new acquaintances and to my right are three friends. They’re smart and funny and easy with each other and their banter reminds me of my pals, Susie, Tammy and me when we were in our thirties. I feel lonely.

And then. There she is. Cheryl Strayed. Tall. Glamorous. Big hair, warm energy, her magenta dress draping her body. What a rock star. She’s funny and kind. She talks about her book Wild, about fears, and conquering them, about processing the loss of her mother, and I no longer feel alone.

She tells a story about how, at one of her workshops, a woman said, “I’m not really a writer. My mother-in-law takes my kids for a few hours every week and that’s when I write.” Cheryl pauses for a beat. “And I said, ‘honey, if that’s what you’re doing with the few hours you get to yourself, then I have news for you. You’re a writer.”

Suddenly, we’re all writers. And we’re in this together. I exchange appreciative laughs with the threesome next to me.

“She’s great,” I say to the one closest to me, and she meets my eyes and says “I’m so glad I did this.”

I think about my mother’s simple advice - if you look someone in the eye, and show true interest in them, you won’t be alone. I ask how much of Cheryl’s work she’s read, and finally, I’m sort of normal again.

A while later, Cheryl gives us our first writing exercise. A letter to ourselves about what we want to write this weekend.

Dear Debra, I scribble, feeling silly.

I tell myself I’ll be okay and that all I’ve done so far by losing stuff and laughing too hard is to be human and that I may learn things.

Cheryl says time’s up and we wait expectantly for our next task. But instead, she says to grab a partner and read our letters to each other. I gulp. The new friends to my left are an instant pair. What if the three to my right decide to become a triplet? Will I read aloud like a nut, and tell myself I did a great job?

I dare to glance over. The third of the three wags her forefinger from herself to me, her brows raised inquisitively. “Want to pair up?” she asks. I say “yes” with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm.

She scoots over. Molly is tall and long-limbed and very beautiful. I study her finely formed nose and high cheekbones, fascinated with her makeup application. She has mastered the smoky eye and then some.

Beautiful Molly reads first and her letter is so well-crafted, I’m taken aback. She tells herself to tell her stories, and to be brave and I can’t imagine her being anything but.

I go next and am surprised at the thinness of my voice.

Don’t worry if you need to talk about missing your mother, because it is not boring. Your heart is broken and you yearn for her and that is human and beautiful. She is there when you falter, and she is there when you succeed, I continue, my voice breaking. She would have laughed with you over how you said Nervous Nellie at check-in and then she would have fixed you with her steady, intelligent eyes and said that everyone was in the same boat and she would have told you you’d be fine in a way that would make you believe it. Let yourself miss that voice and, I don’t know, Dear Debra, you’re allowed to hurt. It makes you the opposite of boring. It makes you beautiful.

My voice has become a whisper and I lose control of my upper lip and a whimper escapes me.

“I honestly don’t know what’s happening to me,” I say, sure that Beautiful Molly regrets having wagged her finger at me. “What I wrote isn’t even that emotional. I just have no control - I couldn’t stop laughing when I got here and now…”

Molly touches my hand.

“I lost my mother too,” she says and I look up from the lap I’d been staring into.

Our eyes meet. Our pain meets.

“It never goes away,” she adds quietly. “It’s the mother wound.”

We sit, letting our tears flow. Her hand stays on mine.

I whisper a thank you, but she doesn’t hear me because Cheryl is telling us to make a list as our next exercise.

I haven’t hand-written in years and without a blank screen and delete button, I scribble madly. My mother, my kids, my husband, my insecurity and fears about what to do if I don’t work full time, all of it comes pouring out of my pen and down my face and I feel - really feel - my mother - in this room, encouraging me, reminding me to feel confident and be kind.

Oh my God, the woman at the desk was right.

Thank you, Registration Woman.

Thank you, Cheryl Strayed.

Thank you, Beautiful Molly.

For touching my heart. And touching my hand. And touching on truths with the simplicity of kind words.

I spend the rest of the weekend listening to the stories of people, who, like me, have come here to write their hearts out.

I drop the snark.

I smile genuinely as I talk about how good the coffee is and fully appreciate how stunning and lush and peaceful it is here.

My unhinged laughter is replaced with unconditional gratitude.

And from time to time, I nod wisely.

Because it is so true.

What we lose always comes back to us

.