Tag Archives: The Watermill at Posara

Dec20

‘I Am’… The Embrace Of A Writer’s Retreat

Posted on December 20, 2017 by terryannewilson

My year has ended in the embrace of a cherished, almost spiritual experience. My husband often chides me and asks if he can switch places as I venture off to a writer’s retreat – this time it was to Penang, Malaysia. I don’t blame him, I know how fortunate I am and it is partly because of the retreat experience that I am, where I am.

At a retreat, it is the inspiration found, the treasured time with kindred spirits who share the love of words and story telling. It is the mutual appreciation of the indulgent cocoon a retreat offers – of putting aside your everyday life and following your creative soul.

‘Retreating’ is five or so days of immersion in something you love to do – or believe that you just might. And of course the long animated dinners, the inspiring ‘field trips’, and the new (and established) friendships are also part of the experience. On the second to last day in Penang, we writers ended an already creative day at the beach, soaking up the beauty and the tranquility. It was just before sunset and we thanked the universe for the fullness of the day. We breathed in the moment and appreciated what we were sharing – never to be repeated and now imprinted forever on our writer’s souls.

My first retreat in Tuscany also comes to mind. A short train journey to Lucca found four of us venturing no further than the closest piazza where we wined and dined the afternoon away. After all, one of the writers was a famous London based screen writer – you can imagine the stories flowed as easily as the chianti! Oh we were so full of love – for the setting we found ourselves in, for the new-found friendships, for the sheer magic of a time and a place. I’ve written of that retreat in Tuscany and how it was a life- changing experience. Inspiring retreats in Phuket have also contributed to my growth as a writer and I encourage anyone not quite sure of the retreat experience, to go… if possible, make the commitment to this next phase of your writing, to yourself.

Each retreat seems to unfold like a richly, layered novel. As the days pass, writers reveal themselves in the slow flowering of creativity – in the comfort of a safe-zone with your fellow writers. Yes at times we ‘block’, we’re hesitant about the ‘task’, we worry that a piece of work doesn’t ‘measure up’. Yet it’s often these growing pains when we stretch ourselves that improves our writing, and together we produce a beloved body of work. Prose that you are the first to savour at those privileged late afternoon or evening readings. Writings where you are wonderfully transported, then pluck a favourite thought or line for yourself to cherish. Maybe a piece truly moves you and your fellow writer is lavished with encouragement… “This is what you must write, this is your voice, your story!”

And as you find your own voice and dig a little deeper, your writing becomes more vulnerable and truthful. Perhaps humour comes to you, or even poetry – as it does with me, but only it seems when I’m ‘retreating’. In Penang, a clear inspiration for a new book revealed itself – an inspiration for historical fiction. Having co-authored a coffee table/history book about Penang last year, one of its historical characters gently ‘whispered’ to me as we spent time in the storied Suffolk House… ‘Tell my story, from a woman’s perspective,” she seemed to entreat. It was a sentiment echoed by my fellow writers and I hope to do so… to do justice to the story.

Inevitably a retreat draws to a close and you say your farewells, knowing that somehow this is where you were meant to have been. The words and ideas, the inspiration and the friendships get packed into your suitcase… as carefully as your brimming notebooks.

Once back home in India, I was thrown immediately into work as I am nearing the completion of my latest book project. With my friend and mentor, Jo Parfitt, we are in the final phase of a book that will be published in March. Monday Morning Emails is the vulnerable and honest account of expat life… the tears, the joys and the tough stuff. Combined, we have created homes for our families in Japan, Dubai, Qatar, Malaysia, Scotland, Canada, Oman, England, Kazakhstan, the US, Norway and India. We have raised five sons globally and supported husbands in the oil/energy business for the past twenty-five years, ish! We’re confident that we have a compelling story to tell and along with Experts who will enlighten on some of the issues, we’re excited about introducing it at the next FIGT.

Yes, I believe none of this would have transpired if I had not ventured to retreats where I’ve found my passion, my confidence, and guidance through Jo Parfitt and Anne O’Connell – and from the writers who have become part of my ‘near and far writer’s circle’.

And of the writing from these retreats? Many pieces have found their way into a blog, an article, a presentation, or even into that upcoming book. Yet there are some pieces that wait quietly in my writing file, hoping to glimpse the light of day. And so why not? Today I thought I’d share a few of those ‘ forgotten darlings’ and one new from Penang… allowing a little sunlight to fall on those pages.

Paradise Writers’ Retreat, Phuket. Task: we were handed a piece of salt water taffy to sample and asked to write a short story in thirty minutes…

Salt Water Taffy

“Welcome to Pier 21,” the tour guide boomed. He was gentlemanly and older. Perhaps the same age as my mother who stood beside me on this ‘girl’s trip.’

“Folks before we begin, I’d like to welcome you with a salt water taffy, a treat from Nova Scotia. One for each of you,” the guide said cheerily, proffering them to the group.

The wrapping on the candy looked clean and childlike – the white and blue lighthouse signaling safety. Or was it the unexpected, even danger.

I hesitantly unwrapped the mass of sugar and soy, my lips already puckered in defiance.

“Gawwd, I can’t eat this mom,” I moaned, nibbling off a mouse-like bite under duress. “It’s ghastly!”

I looked at my mom whose jaw was already moving up and down; like a gum boot pulling out of mud, like honey dripping in slow motion.

“I love it,” she managed to mumble while masticating the sticky mass.

“Seriously, I can’t believe it,” I said incredulously. “You don’t like anything sweet, not even chocolate.”

“Annie, it was the first treat given to us when we reached this shore after sailing from Holland. The first bite I ever took on Canadian soil,” Mom said, managing a smile through the stringy taffy. She was already reaching for my wee-nibbled piece.

Writer’s Retreat at The Watermill Posara, Tuscany. Task: at the local village market, find one person to focus on, write…

Market at Fivizzano

They amble into Piazza Medicea, hands clasped behind hunched backs, they fold easily into the bustle. Bonjourno Signorie, they nod.
Stalls gathered geometrically inside walls of creme, ochre and terracotta,
shutters green, new and cracked, some open, most shut.

Reggiano, porchetto, parmignano like a marble block.
Sausage, salami, puffed like fingers reaching down.
A quick glance at the fish and its lifeless steely eyes, a chop of its head,
efficiently wrapped for lunchtime. Grazie Mille… Prego!

Beans, zolfini and piattellini also don’t entice.
Plump tomatoes, zucchini, and fennel, ignored.
Cheap sandles and belts – distractions.

The bells chime, strangled to some, but marking noon and
the piazza clears, the tourists depart.
Now, finally, at Piccola Cucina their chairs are free.
A Moretti, an espresso? No difference, the conversations begins…

Paradise Writers’ Retreat, Phuket. Task: trip to the beach, the shade of a palm tree our ‘office’. Write Misbehave and Suffocate, You’re a Beach Bum…

You’re a Beach Bum

The crash of the waves imitated the rhythm of our love making. And when it happened, my mind crawled out of the suffocating hole this beach has buried me in.

I believe in one-hundred years time, I’ll be referred to as a beach bum. I’m certainly not here by choice.

The sinking of the steamship has marooned us somewhere in Asia, at least the Captain is quite certain of that. Coconuts clump together on tall palm trees, sand as fine as sugar creeps into every pore, and the sun beats down, relentless on our fair skin. At night, the air fills with haunting sounds from the nearby jungle; monkeys and birds and mosquitoes that pester endlessly. I loathe it all.

Seven of us Saloon passengers have survived. We were enroute to the majestic Rocky Mountains of Canada, a passage to mark the turn of the century. With suites booked at the glamorous new CPR Hotels in Banff and Lake Louise, oh how very excited we were!

We had sailed from Australia and the journey had been fine – morning strolls on the deck, afternoon high-tea at promptly 3 p.m, dinner at precisely 7. Oh and the invitation to the Captain’s table… it was beyond refinement and glorious. And all those eligible young bachelors, gone, to the depths of the oceans… and my hopes along with them.

Now we survivours wither in the blazing sun, including Marnie, my cruel and obtuse aunt. Tasked with chaperoning her eligible young niece, she now looks at me with disdain as I release my golden curls from my bejewelled hair pins. She glowers as I push up my bustier and straighten my under-slip. In this savage heat, I’ve long discarded my frilly, cumbersome frock.

Marnie has refused to unclothe herself. Her long flowing dress has frayed at the hem and she’s ever more prude-like as she continuously brushes sand from her tall, straight as a bamboo self. It’s as if the sand is the contagious disease that we’re all likely to succumb to any day now.

I no longer care. Last night’s moonlit rendezvous has changed everything, I want him again tonight. Oh joy indeed, the shackles of modesty and correctness have been truly broken.

Me-Treats, Penang. Task: who are you, tell us in verse or poem

I Am…

I am a daughter of a beautiful woman, one of her ‘pride and joys’. And I hold that dear, like a grandmother’s finest crystal. My treasured mother is my touchstone, my heart.

And I am a mother. One who loves and laughs, who cries and listens, who shares so much joy – yet longs for the soft caress of her babys’ touch. A mother of three sons; their love stamped on my unfailing maternal heart.

I am a wife who holds my travel companion’s secrets, his hopes and desires – his well lived yearbooks of life and our life’s treasured past. I turn to him often and whisper, “I never want this to be over.”

I am a true friend who holds friends dear – the laughter, the insights, the secrets… the stories of our lives.

And oh, how I am a traveler – one who has roamed and traversed, soaked in and marvelled at this compelling, glorious world. Its labels are firmly attached to my wanderlust soul – Florence and Oman, Singapore and old Siam, Osaka and Amsterdam, Kathmandu and even old Madras.

Most assuredly, I am a writer and a researcher. Give me the past to unravel, the characters of old to pluck out like fine golden nuggets – to relive their journeys and dreams. Or maybe it is the romance of the Renaissance, the storied sagas of the Vikings, the rich history and minareted sky of pretty Istanbul… all of it, I am.

Lastly, I am the calm and the bluest of oceans, the greenest of rainforests. The vibrant verve of a city – chiseled architecture and sparkling sights, or silk and saffron in packed, lively bazaars. Yet give me the beauty of a flourishing garden to find calm and solace in its gentlest pinks and softest whites – water lilies, fragrant frangipanis and velvety Dutch tulips.

Yes, I am the tapestry of my life – still richly weaving… thread, by thread, by precious thread.

Post Script – I encourage you to take some time over this holiday season and write… I Am. Take the opportunity to appreciate you, your loves, your passions, the richness of what makes you, you. Once claimed on ‘paper’, it is there for you always.

For me, along with my next project, I am happily joining a few more retreats in 2018, yet I am now also hosting my own workshops. Let’s hope they too will inspire and evolve into retreats… I have a location or two in mind!

And lastly, I offer many warm wishes, good health and peace for this holiday season and the New Year… fondly, Terry Anne xx

Jo Parfitt’s Me-Treats are held in various locations, Tuscany for Write Your Life Story

Anne O’Connell’s Paradise Writer’s Retreats are now held in Halifax, Nova Scotia

Aug28

These particular ones are green…

Posted on August 28, 2014 by terryannewilson

Standard

New challenges through a blue doorway in Sweden

As I closed my front door a few days ago, I thought of the new door that will soon open for me, wide with opportunities. It’s been a flurry of activity, packing and departing our house in Canada and I write this, finally relaxed, in a cozy hotel lobby in Sweden. Sunk into a deep sofa, candles flickering on a simple wooden coffee table, we’ve been mostly awake for the past 32 hours. Trying to keep jet lag at bay, soon after arriving in Copenhagen we made our way to nearby Lund. It’s a beautiful Swedish university town where our eldest has recently moved to study for his Masters degree.

It’s good to see him settled in his little loft apartment and know he’s ready for this next challenge, his new doorway of opportunity. I’m empathetic that many of us are experiencing change at this time of year. It’s the end of summer and the season of new beginnings for students, yet often a time of struggle for parents coping with their departure. By chance, my moving to Kazakhstan has coincided with our son’s transition and as we visited him this evening, I insisted on taking a picture in front of his new blue door. Although I suggest these photos rather casually wherever we may reside, I know that there’s an ulterior motive. These photos of our more than two dozen front doors evoke poignant and treasured memories of life lived inside, around and through those portals.

The doors that inspired a piece of writing in Tuscany

Anyone who knows me well, knows, I love doors. In fact, one of the tasks at a fondly remembered writing retreat* was to wander silently for thirty minutes gathering inspiration for a piece of writing. Set in a serene bamboo grove, it’s curious that my muse was not drawn from a natural setting within the Watermill grounds. Rather, I was intrigued by a stack of abandoned doors. Then again, my choice wasn’t all that surprising for someone who sees them as more than a barrier to keep out the elements. For me, a door can be exciting, mysterious and even better if there’s an interesting ‘knocker’ or other hardware on it!

Of those doors tucked away in an old Tuscan shed I wrote;

In Krakow, Poland

Stockholm, Sweden

These particular ones are green, in fact many shades of green, the peeling paint revealing layers of life’s moments. They are now stacked in a vertical pile, discarded behind the archway they once inhabited. I am endlessly intrigued by them; their texture and colour, their hardware and design. To me they become subjects to admire, photograph and even collect. The doors I prefer are old, often in abandoned structures or homes. They no longer have the joy of being opened, closed, or being left ajar so the cat can slink in and out. Behind their scratched panels and knotted wood, they hold secrets of lives lived within their protection. Lives, perhaps of hard work, turmoil, misery, even grief – but also of joy, laughter and secret words that cascaded up to their secure surface but didn’t venture further; keeping those vignettes tucked safely inside, keepsakes for family and friends.

An old Roman Villa

Doors are often portrayed as metaphors for life; for hope, opportunity or invitation. In fact, in Roman religion and myth, Janus is the God of beginnings and traditions, and thereby of gates, doors and doorways. He is depicted as having two faces, one towards the future and one to the past. The Romans even named a month after him – the gateway to the year, January.

220px-HK_Wan_Chai_Stone_Nullah_Lane_Blue_House_74D_n_Door_Gods_n_Letter_Box

A door in China, protected with door gods

The Chinese and other eastern cultures believe in a ‘door god’, represented in decorations positioned on each side of an entry to a temple, home or business. The ‘god’ wards off evil spirits and fosters good will. It seems doors have always been symbolic and endowed with purpose; often as portents of change.

A symbolic heart graces a Norwegian door

In Norway, I was charmed by ‘hearts’ that were hung on wooden doorways, especially at Christmas time. They seemed to beckon one inside, perhaps away from the damp and cold, into a warm hearth. Doors have traditionally been of wood; oak, cedar, cypress, elm or even olive. However constructed, even flimsily such as a tent or teepee, the door has ever signified a secure boundary. And yet that boundary opens wide to allow one to go forth and explore, though we all know how comforting the sight of your own front door can be after a tiring day or late night out.

One of my favourite doors; the town hall in San Gimignano in Tuscany

I have photographed them in many countries, often for their beauty but typically for the curiosity they invoke. Upon leaving the Middle East where we lived for seven years, I even brought two home with me. One is embedded within a coffee table, the worn, dark red wood now protected with glass. The other was rescued from a garbage pile beside a once imposing, but now dilapidated fort in the barren foothills of Oman. I like to think I rescued that one from being chopped up for campfire kindling!

An abandoned door in Sintra, Portugal

And as for the changes they represent, for someone like myself who happens to open and close more than my fair share, it isn’t always easy. A few days ago as the cabin lights dimmed and the plane taxied down the runway, tears escaped from my eyes. My anticipation for this next phase was overshadowed by a mother’s love for her children. As two of ours remain in Canada the knowledge of the impending distance tore at my heart knowing this family of five is once again separated by countries, even continents. Yet, there’s the underlying comfort that within some months, a door will be flung open and family will be reunited with stories to tell of all our adventures.

For now, I can’t wait to see the interesting portals I’ll find to walk through to explore, to appreciate more wonders of this interesting world. Did I mention my next front door will actually be a Hotel…there just might be a few stories forthcoming from there!

In Christiania, Copenhagen

Lucca, Italy

*The Watermill at Posara in Tuscany, as written about in blog post ‘ So you want to be a writer…’

Mar31

So You Want To Be A Writer…

Posted on March 31, 2014 by terryannewilson

Standard

I have to admit, being announced as a writer at the recent #FIGT conference was a proud moment. It had long been a dream of mine and my eventual epiphany was inspired by a borrowed book. That book would eventually lead me to a writing retreat in Tuscany, led by Jo Parfitt. At the risk of sounding over-dramatic, it changed my life.

Becoming a writer…in Tuscany

I’ve always been envious of people who are diligently committed to their writing, as opposed to simply proclaiming their wish to be a writer, as I had done for years. Having lived and travelled for twenty-three years in countries strung across the globe, I have nevertheless written every step of the way. Though up until now, those experiences have languished in my journals, begging to be released. They attest to adventures such as safari by camel in Rajasthan, truffle hunting in the Arabian desert, and trekking in Nepal. To be fair, a few of those diary pages made it to published articles; Fleeing Tiananmen Square was one and thankfully, on a happier note, Shopping in the Silver Souks of Oman. The latter is definitely a lighter read!

Yet there’s still no book to speak of despite pleas from my ever patient husband and even a grandmother’s admonishment to, “Please write that book dear so I’ll know what you been up to all these years”. Sadly, she’s no longer with us, which reminds me that time is knocking at the door. It seems there hasn’t been that all consuming desire to lock myself away and write, that persistent need to tell my story. I could blame it on raising sons on different continents and working part time which kept me more than busy. No excuse, countless writers produce a manuscript with far less ‘crippling’ situations than mine. I now appreciate that perhaps we need to grow into things, to arrive at that place more experienced, more poised, and to forgive ourselves for ‘lost’ time.

While living in Norway these previous four years, I finally heeded my husband’s protestations and “find something I was passionate about if I wasn’t going to write that darn book”. I did cultivate my passion for history and became a tour guide. And I did write, so to speak, with verbal narratives. I can tell you everything you want to know about the Vikings, shipping fleets and herring exports, or why most of the wooden houses in Norway are painted white. In fact, I would tell stories for three hours at a time, weaving history and local culture into rich tapestries, but alas they’re not on paper. My stories were informative and entertaining, but ephemeral nonetheless.

And so it was through a book lent to me, written by Maggie Myklebust, that I finally became committed to writing. Maggie had an inspiring story to tell and she was brave enough to do so in her book Fly Away Home. It touched me on many levels, but mostly Maggie’s determination to become an author, something she could not have envisioned. Her publisher was Jo Parfitt of Summertime Publishing, who would that autumn lead a writing retreat in Tuscany. After years of dabbling as a writer, I dug up the courage to put my proclamations to the test. And if it all failed miserably, at least I would have had a week in beguiling Tuscany.

The Tuscan Writers

Eleven strangers had chosen to be thrown together. Eleven strangers who shared a love of words, poetry and story telling, but could we write? We all had doubts as to why we had taken this plunge; frightened, yet excited with the possibilities of what the week would bring.

Writing at the Vine Terrace

The group was mostly British including eighty- four year olds, Pamela Mary and Peeta. These lovely ladies arrived together, their sun hats set firmly atop their silvery coiffures. They had been raised by nannies and servants in Her Majesty’s far flung colonies while their fathers served the British Empire. Both were eager to record their stories from a bygone era for family and posterity. They only wrote with pen and paper, no lap tops, and their penmanship was beautiful, of course. We were inspired that they had the courage to begin the journey of writing their memoir, confirmation that it is never too late to fulfill a dream.

The Watermill at Posara was the ideal setting for a writing retreat. The Tuscan sunshine, superb hospitality and gorgeous surroundings welcomed us with open arms. With the back drop of a cobblestoned courtyard and terracotta pots stuffed with bouganvilla, we embarked on six days of lessons and inspired writing. Most of our work took place under the Vine Terrace. Shaded by a mass of grape vines, their plump grapes poking through the trellises, the terrace welcomed us into its safety. It is here our writing would evoke emotions of sorrow, joy, disappointment and laughter, along with tears.

Our mandate was to learn and observe, to write, to polish, to present by 5 p.m. This did not vary. Every day, bar one, we knew at this time we must present a piece of work to be read aloud for all to hear, to ponder and to comment upon. As the sunflowers nodded in the late afternoon sun and the nearby bells of Posara chimed, we ruminated with our words and reached into our souls.

Frightening and challenging yes…

Instructive and inspiring, yes again..

Life Changing, absolutely.

At precisely 6:30 each evening, we were reminded that it was Apertivo time as the tiled table was promptly set with a fruit laden decanter of Aperol and carafes of Chianti. It was a welcome reward for our writing toil, and balm for our souls that we had bared to each other. After a delicious meal, our day would conclude in the comfort of the drawing room. Sinking into deep sofas, we engaged in lively conversation while sipping on chilled, locally made Limoncello.

The only male in our group was a famous British screenwriter (who shall remain anonymous) and we wondered why he was there, though pleased that he was. He would read from his poignant memoir, recently begun but already captivating. He would also regale us with stories of his Hollywood exploits, just as intriguing, I can assure you! We all contributed with tales of jungle treks, of living on a houseboat, of lovers, of simpler times, of loss. Each evening, was more entertaining than the previous. Each evening, eleven ‘strangers’ with different pasts became closer, breaking down barriers that would enable us to bare our souls just a little more in our writing the next day. With the window sashes thrown open allowing the moonlight to peek into our lively gatherings, we would comment that another day had indeed been well lived at The Watermill!

The most integral member of that group and the reason we were all there, was Jo Parfitt. We blossomed under her nurturing guidance, her magnanimous manner and her colourful scarves that greeted us each day. Because of her, we became writers… we became a writing family.