The Sorting Hat Settles at Centrum

"Oh you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see; I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me."
—The Sorting Hat, opening lines of the 1991 Sorting Hat song, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
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I live many lives.

By day, I’m a San Diego working mother of two – I run a busy freelance book publicity business and teach communications classes at a local community college. By night, I’m an active mom and wife, cooking dinners, driving kids to sporting events, overseeing homework and social activities, washing clothes, grocery shopping, etc. For each activity, I wear a different Harry Potter-style Sorting Hat: advisor, nurturer, consoler, communicator, parent, and partner.

But my other life is a more personal one; I have been a writer for almost ten years, and somehow managed to get one novel written and published despite the many other hats that find their way to my head. With the writing came some wonderful benefits: a number of lively and friendly writing groups, three artist residencies, all in beautiful places (Oregon, Hawaii, and Vermont), connections with other authors, publishers, agents, and, since my book was a Native American story, the local Pala Indian community, who welcomed me with warmth and generosity. The writing hat fits well, indeed.

But this past year has been a tough one on my writing life, as both of my kids are getting ready to leave for college – one this year, and one the year after. It’s been a hectic time of softball recruiting visits for my daughter and college visits for my older son. But both are finally settled on the schools they plan to attend, so when a friend invited me to apply for an artist residency at Centrum in Port Townsend, Washington, I agreed. The time slot that Centrum offered us fit perfectly with my teaching schedule (it was, luckily, the same time as spring break), so I left my many-sided life in San Diego and have been here in the rainy Pacific Northwest, joyfully allowing the writing hat to slip back onto my head.

The Centrum campus is located on the grounds of Fort Worden State Park, a lovely wide-open green belt, with old-style military barracks, cabins, and apartment buildings scattered across the grounds. There is a youth hostel here, along with some mansion-sized homes and tiny wooden huts. I was first housed in one of the older, two-story apartments, but the building's rickety heater pumped heat non-stop (there was no thermostat in our unit). After two nights of sweating and incessant rattling noise, I asked to be moved to one of the cabins, and that’s where I sit as I write this post.

Fort Worden Park sits on a bluff above Admiralty Bay and the Port Townsend Marine Science Center beach and pier. The views are stunning – from my former second story apartment, I could see almost all of Whidbey Island across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which glitters in the sun and turns moody and sullen when the sky is cloudy. In my new cabin, I have even more impressive views overlooking the grassy cliffs and the bay down below. The cabin is peaceful, and the heat is – blessedly – controllable and quiet.

Centrum is a beautiful place; it bustles with the comings and goings of visiting artists, writers, and musicians (we saw a magnificent choro -- Brazilian jazz -- concert performed by some of the greatest folk musicians in the world two nights ago). The park also houses families and guests who rent the buildings to explore the Victorian harbor town of Port Townsend. So, there are children here, running across the grounds with their Frisbees, footballs, scooters, and bikes. The place teems with twittering birds and a few well-fed cats, yet it also has a quiet ambience, reinforced by the stately views of the sea and the elegant deer that tiptoe across the grass in the morning to nibble at the clover blossoms. The sun sets later in the day here, bringing with it a clarity and warmth that is soothing and breath-taking at the same time.

I’m happy to be here, in this lovely, northern world. I do miss my husband, kids, clients, and students (and, of course, my own bed), but I know that all the other hats I wear will be waiting for me when I return, refreshed and eager to pick up where I left off.

The Joy of Artist Residencies

Artist residencies are a terrific way for writers to beef up their writing c.v.'s and see some of this great country of ours. I've been lucky enough to be accepted at three of them: Caldera in Sisters, Oregon, in 2006; Red Cinder Artist Colony on the Big Island of Hawaii in 2007; and The Vermont Studio Center in Johnson, Vermont, this coming October.

Residencies are usually awarded based on a writer's work. Some only accept published authors, but many will consider emerging writers who have won awards or otherwise distinguished themselves. A few require references with the application, and many want artists and writers who are able to spend a committed length of time at the facility. They usually offer some type of housing, which can be anything from a log cabin to a room inside a house. Most offer some sort of meal arrangement, although there are some that provide space to cook your own meals. Most expect you to get there on your own and provide for your own transportation while you're there.

If you have kids and/or a busy day job, an artist residency is the ultimate getaway. Imagine two-three weeks of nothing but fresh air and free time. You'll meet many other artists and writers who are there the same time you are. You get to sleep in or stay up late, read, write, and explore the local area.

A great resource for artist residencies can be found at http://www.artistcommunities.org/. Also, watch for announcements in literary magazines like Poets & Writers.

Here is an excerpt from a note I sent my agent after my stay at Caldera in Oregon:

The residency was an incredible interlude -- so peaceful and beautiful. I got used to waking up in the morning to a blanket of snow on the deck and trees outside the window of my A-frame cabin. I'd build a fire in my little wood burning stove and listen to NPR on my shortwave radio while I made coffee, then worked until 1:30 or so. I usually hiked around Blue Lake or Suttle Lake in the afternoon, or sometimes went into Sisters, which is a really pretty little town. There are lots of ranches up off of Highway 20, and some have a few llamas interspersed with their cattle. The forest in Central Oregon is all Ponderosa pine and Douglas firs, spreading for miles up the valleys and into the hillsides.

There was a blue heron who fed in Link Creek right outside my window. He flew up into the air one day in the middle of a snow storm. It was a lovely sight. I also discovered a pair of bonded eagles that nest at Suttle Lake. The male has an eight-foot wing span. We had lots of salmon in the creek, heading for the fish ladder just outside the Hearth Center. They were returning to Blue Lake to spawn. I laughed out loud one morning when a baby squirrel fell out of one of the pine trees onto the deck outside my cabin. I think his appearance surprised us both. He sat there kind of stunned for a moment before scampering away. There was also a resident blue jay, who was quite a persistent character. He'd hit the railing of the deck each morning with a loud thunk, and then come stumping up to the window, cocking his head and looking at me as if to say, "Okay, sister, cough up the food!"

I miss my fellow artists at Caldera. Even though we spent most of the days and nights working alone or in the center studios, we all got incredibly close. The whole experience of being there was amazing -- almost zen. There is something about being in the woods where, except for the sound of the creek outside your window or the wind blowing through the trees, there is nothing but you and your work. I felt a sense of everything falling away -- all of the noise and material trappings -- and experienced a heightened state of awareness. Everything you do up there, from lighting a fire to walking along the lake shore to putting words on a page, becomes filled with intention and seems so focused and beautiful. It was very hard to leave.