Poetry

Lost Lake Writers Retreat

Having finished the first draft of a novel this summer, I promised myself my reward would be a weekend getaway. On a whim I searched for writer’s retreats in Michigan and found the Lost Lake Writers Retreat. It was the perfect way to nurture my writing soul.

The Lost Lake Writers Retreat is presented annually by Inspiration Alcona and Springfed Arts with grants from the Michigan Arts & Culture Council, the National Endowment for the Arts, and Art Works. The retreat is held at the Lost Lake Woods Club on the sunrise side of the state of Michigan just north of the small town of Lincoln.

Grab a coffee – this is a longer post with pretty pictures and interesting stories. 🙂

The Past Circles Back Again

In August I attended an event to commemorate the 45th anniversary of the pop-rock band Bay City Rollers appearing in their namesake city of Bay City, Michigan. That weekend was an absolute blast and had me remembering things left and right for weeks. This weekend was no different – but for different reasons.

Like any introvert, I was hesitant to attend an event where I wasn’t going to know anyone and had to do any socializing. I kept browsing both the Inspiration Alcona and Springfed Arts websites until lightening struck. The director of the event, John D. Lamb, was a musician that I’d seen back in the 80’s in Mount Pleasant, Michigan.

Back then, I was in college and John (going by the moniker Johnny D) was playing solo acoustic at the Foolery (now known as Rubbles) downtown. I’d go with a couple friends and we’d dance to this guy singing Springsteen-y kinds of songs with lots of lyrics and plenty of chutzpah. Here’s a poster from those many years ago.

These days John is the director of Springfed Arts and hosts songwriting and writing retreats and events throughout the year; he has a whole lot of music available, too. He’s also an amazing, gracious host and made this introvert felt loved and appreciated. His music is available at all the normal places, so go buy some today.

Here is the John D. Lamb website and Bandcamp sites. I immediately grabbed all of the CD’s (because I’m old school like that) and they arrived with a hand-written note from John.

Lumberman’s Monument

I promised myself when I moved back to Michigan a decade or more ago that I would get to know the state more. I’ve failed miserably at that, but have really enjoyed watching a load of TikToks by Michigan creators that celebrate the state. For the drive to the Lost Lake Writers Retreat I decided to wander the byways a bit… Err, I drove some roads I’d never been on before.

One of those roads led to the Lumberman’s Monument just west of Oscoda. The fall colors were already popping and the overlook of the Au Sable river was stunning – especially just after rain – look at these clouds!

It had rained on and off as I drove, and the rain let up long enough for me to walk around the monument site. It was quiet, too, with only a few other visitors in the area. I didn’t take the steep walk down to the waterside.

The monument commemorates workers in the logging industry early in the history of Michigan.

Lumberman’s Monument is open daily throughout the year and there are walking trails and a camping area, too. The site is maintained and staffed by the USDA Forestry department. There is a small gift shop and bathroom facilities.

Trip To The Beach

No trip to the northeast side of the lower peninsula could be complete without a walk on the beach and so I stopped into a roadside park and wandered out onto the beach. Once again Mother Nature held off on the rain just long enough for me to enjoy the view and the sounds. But once I was back in the car the rain poured down.

Lost Lake Woods Club

Just north of Lincoln, Michigan, the Lost Lake Wood Club boasts more than 10,000 acres of private, members-only grounds for hunting, fishing, shooting, horseback riding, golfing, and more. There are five lakes, ample walking trails, a large lodge, and dining/banquet facilities. Plenty of people have summer homes here and some have year-round homes at the ninety-six year old club.

All retreat activities were held in the Lost Lake Lodge which is a sprawling hive of activity for the entire club.

I walked in and almost immediately got a fabulous bear hug from John. Then I checked into my room and settled in.

Most meals were in the dining room overlooking the lake. Portions were huge and I often felt like I would drown in the dishes.

I mean, look at this is sweet potato fries topped with barbecue pork and coleslaw. It’s not a bad way to drown, mind you, but there was no way I could finish the whole thing. On the other hand, it was so tasty I might have to try to recreate it.

One night, there was a spectacular sunset.

And I went for a long walk part of the way around the lake.

It was hard to get a bad photo, though I did manage to get quite a few with my thumb or finger.

We left the property one night for dinner at Rosa’s Lookout Inn just up the road in Spruce. Voted the best Italian restaurant on the sunrise side of the state for ten years running, the food lived up to that honor.

Writers Retreat

Ultimately, the weekend was about words and writing, and really knowing in my bones how important writing is in my life. I think I’ve run away from words as much as I’ve run towards them.

For the longest time I’ve struggled with feeling like I belong somewhere, with trying to identify who I am as a person living mostly alone in the world.

Even when setting up this website, I tried to follow the marketing law of focus on one thing… Any online business course I’ve ever taken has admonished students to focus on “one thing” that you do well. But I’m not just interested in one thing: I am multitudes.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
Walt Whitman – Song of Myself

(And yeah, Song of Myself is as much about Whitman as it is about America, but that’s a digression I won’t go further into now.)

At the BCR weekend I knew that those Roller fans were my people, my tribe.

I have no doubt that my meditation friends are another part of my tribe, too. That spiritual tribe has ties that quite literally transcend time and space.

My tribal triumvirate is complete with writing friends. These are my people, too.

And metaphysically, I could go into the three in the one and the one in the three, but that’s not what this blog post is about.

Poetry is Life!

Just as the world shut down in the spring of 2020, I self published a collection of poems. (FYI, any link to Amazon is an affiliate link.)

This is a collection of poems written from 1976-2006. Some were published elsewhere, many were read at open mikes over the years. But none had found a permanent home and – to be honest – I hadn’t worked at publishing. I’m happy to have them all gathered in one place.

I recently lowered the price of both the Kindle and the paperback on Amazon. You can also buy the book directly from me and get an autographed copy)

The Kindle eBook is free October 17 to October 21!

This retreat brought home to me how important poetry is… I’d forgotten again. Sigh.

This weekend was about learning new techniques and sharpening up those old skills and this weekend fit like a delicious pair of jeans. This weekend was about talking shop and life and influences. This was a weekend that nourished my writing soul.

In a conversation over dinner at Rosa’s I asked John about future retreats and suggested bringing someone to talk about self-publishing. Through that conversation it became very clear that his focus for the retreat to nurture writers; he does the same thing with songwriting retreats.

The Lost Lake Writers Retreat weekend wasn’t about learning the latest and greatest, but rather about celebrating the heart of the writing life.

This retreat is fertilizer, this retreat is food, this retreat is everything about supporting you right where you are on your writing journey. It was a perfect match for me.

Poetry Game

The poem below appeared through “The Poetry Game” an exercise taught to us by poet Leila Chatti. If I heard the pedigree correctly, it was first taught (created?) by Ruth Stone who taught it to Sharon Olds who taught it to Dorianne Laux, who taught it to Leila Chatti, who taught it to us.

Poets love playing with words and this game began by people offering up random words and then adding additional rules:

Include something blue but don’t use the word blue
Include a lie or a lie revealed
Include your name or the meaning of your name, or a word that sounds like your name
Include the phrase “you can feel it now.”

From there we were instructed to set a timer for twenty minutes and use as many of these words and follow the rules as much as you can. It took more than twenty minutes to polish this, but I got it done – and used all the words and rules!

Lost Lake Writers Retreat, Refrain

Saturday night after dinner each attendee read some of their work. I read two older poems from my book; it’s the first time I’ve read in public in – what – maybe ten years?

It felt like it, too, because I was nervous, shaky, and -let’s be honest- it was kind of hard to read from my book. Thank goodness I knew those two poems (almost) by heart. Even when I was co-hosting the poetry slam back in the day, I never could manage to memorize poems.

And it felt good, too, because by the time I was into the third or fourth stanza, my performance legs were back and functioning. My voice rose and fell. I slowed down to draw out the feelings behind the words and to give the listeners a chance to process the images that “Write A Poem And Call Me In The Morning” and “Starvation” offer.

Sunday morning we did a reading all over again, sharing work written during the weekend. And then, just like that, it was over and I was back in my car, a solitary traveler, on the lonesome highway heading south towards home.

On that long drive, though, I kept thinking about how much I’d enjoyed the weekend – the escape, the camaraderie, the memories. And especially how much I’d enjoyed jumping back into writing.

I’ve already started dreaming about what my “mission” will include for next year. I’m confident there will be writing involved. And I’d like to think I’ll be back to the Lost Lake Writers Retreat, too.

Your Turn

Is it too tacky to say I found myself at Lost Lake? Maybe. But it feels like I definitely reclaimed something I’d lost or set aside. I “re-membered” that writerly part of myself.

What parts of you have been lost along the way? How did you reclaim them?

The WordStorm Cover Reveal

At long last, I am releasing a collection of poetry and here is the cover:

This was immediately the cover that pulled me in and held me. Allen Ginsberg’s approach to poetry was ‘first thought best thought’ and -in the case of this cover- that really applies.

There’s something about that lightning and the purple and blue that speak to me. I love that WordStorm is huge. I like the use of different fonts add interest.

And the fact that there’s lightning in the Word and the Storm? I was stunned.

A friend said the cover “shows intensity and passion.”

The lightning is also a nod to a poetic term called a ‘turn’ where, at the end of a poem, there’s often a line or two that take your breathe away or makes you sigh in recognition. I think of turns as itty bitty enlightenments which lightning represents well.

And the fact that I can write a paragraph or so about the potential different interpretations? No doubt, this is the cover that’s perfect for this poetry.

What’s A WordStorm?

I don’t really know, but it has all sorts of implications. It comes from my poem called Starvation:

I’m hungry for a wordstorm casserole, fresh from the oven of my imagination, accompanied by cornbread dreams, steamed dictionaries, hot flashes of insight, and hot fudge recitations.

That sounds like one tasty meal to this word-loving lady!

The Back Cover

The back cover is as understated as the front cover is boisterous. The excerpt is the last stanza of my poem How To Express Yourself More Clearly.

Cover Design

The cover and interior were designed by the talented professional Danielle Smith-Boldt.

You know how when you meet someone you just hit it off? Working iwth Danielle was like that.

She even has a love of poet E. E. Cummings,which brings nothing but music (treble, bass, coda) to this mudluscious, puddle wonderful poet’s pitter-patter h.e.a.r.t.

Check out Danielle’s other work! Hire Danielle either directly from her website or, like me, on Reedsy.

Poems

The poems in The WordStorm cover several decades. There are a couple of poems from high school, a lot from my time living in Athens, Georgia, and several from my earliest years living here in Mount Pleasant, Michigan.

The “hits” from the Athens years are definitely here. When I think of Athens, these poems come to mind: 2Kewl, I AM Becoming One, Be/Learn/Know, Damariscotta, Luna’s Lending Library, On Shooting Trees, Sexrain, and -as mentioned above- Starvation.

There are poems that explore my inner world, look at the outside world of nature, and also those that examine the world and society around me. Heck, the book is more than 100 pages long!

Get The Book

Buy an autographed copy from me via PayPal or Stripe.

Head over to my Amazon author page and buy an ebook or physical copy.

You can also find me on

Library Thing Author Page | Personal Profile | Library
Good Reads Book | Personal Profile

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Creativity and Intuition Are Partners Made In Heaven

creativity and intuition are partners made in heaven

Creative intuition is the ability to quickly identify valuable or useful creative ideas without conscious thought. As with all intuition, it is described as instantaneous without any conscious understanding of how the mind created the idea. –Simplicable

Intuition is Creative

Back when I was first truly starting on my spiritual journey, I worked through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way with a small group of women. Cameron encourages you to slowly begin exploring your feelings about creativity.

I’d done fairly well in art classes in middle school. But by high school I was a typically petulant teenager and stopped taking art classes: I had to go to college and get a job, after all. Art was not for people like me.

But by the mid-90s I had started meditating regularly, and used the gentle nudging of Cameron’s writing to explore creativity. Sure, Cameron made suggestions, but it was up to me to decide what to try. A friend suggested craypas, and boy, that was all it took.

I created craypas drawing after craypas drawing – just playing with the texture and colors, not following any specific rules and not hoping for a really good grade or someone’s approval. Remarkably, most drawings explored the images and feelings that came to me during meditation.

It was purely intuitive drawing. Listen to what Picasso said about intuition:

I don’t have a clue. Ideas are simply starting points. I can rarely set them down as they come to my mind. As soon as I start to work, others well up in my pen. To know what you’re going to draw, you have to begin drawing… When I find myself facing a blank page, that’s always going through my head. What I capture in spite of myself interests me more than my own ideas. -Picasso

You may not be Picasso, but you can definitely be creative. Grab some crayons and paper. Sit quietly, and then just color. Ignore the rules, and just do what feels right.

It OK to do what feels right to you. The idea is to figure out what you do all on your own, without an art teacher grading you or friends critiquing you.

Poetry is Heaven Whispering

I’ve always been a poet; heck I even won a poetry award in high school. But in my 30s, fell in with some amazing poets in Athens, Georgia, and created remarkable poetry.

In poetry, words slip and slide like colors on a painting, like craypas or watercolor. I just followed what was my unique way of using words and fellow poets encouraged me to “just do me.”

The ‘Morning Pages” technique of Julia Cameron gets me going. I simply sit down, take a pen in my hand, and start writing whatever shows up. Usually I’m whining about the fact that it’s early and I’m tired and don’t know what to write or why I’m bothering to write.

But then magic happens, and the voice shifts.

There is a marked shift in the writing. It’s whiny and then -poof! It’s clear and beyond competent. Look at these divine words that simply flowed out of me one morning on it’s own.

Creativity Is Intuition

Once you’ve tried your hand at a little creativity (whether it’s craypas or poetry – or your favorite creative endeavor,) it eventually becomes easy to intuit everything and anything. Want to add a garden to your back yard? Sit in the backyard at different times of the day and feel what would make you happy. Just listen to your heart, and you’ll know exactly what to do.

What creative practices do you do? How do you use your intuition when being creative?

Be / Learn / Know

be learn know julieawallace

All Earth bound, tethered down Souls

All flying inside the mind of One,

All of You, friends unrecognized

and shying away from discovery by

repenting treacherous discoveries

to be named at a later date.

All of us sleeping,

and all of us waking

using metaphor and symbol,

using words, pictures, and songs.

All of us

here

learning the same lesson

The same lesson

The Same Lesson

We have no books to study, no exam, no school, no bell, no specially built building to congregate and confrontate in. We have no teacher save our Self. We learn by experience. We learn by not doing. We are a paradox. We are balance. We can divine the present more certainly from the past. We do not encourage future thinking. We want the now. We need the NOW.

We do not proclaim our allegiances or our hatred: our voices cannot be heard. Today is tomorrow is yesterday is today. We are all the same. We do not strive for differentiation because there is none, but one. This is not a religion. This is not a manipulation. This is a dream, and this is reality.

We are moving much faster. We will be all, and all that will be, is all we are. We do not speak out. We are silence, deafening. There is no curriculum to follow, no requirements needed, no applications being taken, no pay at the end of the week, no fee for knowledge.

We do not practice hate, but acknowledge tolerance. This is not a manifesto of the Aquarian Age; this is the truth. Truth is ambiguous. Time is a concept like reality is created.

Dimensional shifts are not real, but reality is. Chairs have feelings, buildings feel pain, and Earth is packing her bags to leave US.

Assuming time as linear, your time is gone. Over. This is a wake-up call for the world; this is an alarm clock.

We are not threatening. There is no fear, and there is no death. You may clutch your concepts and cradle your fear, but we have no regrets. We will not “do” your feeling for you. We have our own. We have yours. We are the Everything. We are ALL.

We are not an organization. There is no entry fee, no blue ribbon, no special recognition. No hordes of fans sleeping on your doorstep, no required worship or most preferred deity. No rewards except One. We do not know what it is. We have no answers. We welcome questions, hope for clues. We encourage puzzle solving. We believe in mystery.

Color is felt, food is thought, touch is sacred, and words are to be unraveled. Dreams are reality; reality is a dream. We believe in polarity and balance. Singing is worship; as you sing your breathe energy in to heal soul, to Heal the Soul.

This is no manifesto, no declaration, no constitution of belief. We are not negation. We are Light and Love. We have no names. We have One.

Feeling My Age

I’m not too sure when it started, but recently I’ve been feeling my age.

Grey Hair

My hair started to truly “go grey” ten or eleven years ago in my forties. There had been strands of grey all along, but I really started to notice the changes then.

I started coloring my hair. Sometimes the color was great: I got along with the stylist, and she had magic touch with coloring. There were several shes, mind you, as over eleven years there have been countless different stylists.

Other times, the stylist wasn’t so skilled, and my hair would have no depth or interest.

This summer, I’m transitioning from fully colored hair to straight up grey. I totally trust and love my stylist, and am ready to embrace all this grey hair.

The grey reflects the inside changes that have been happening throughout menopause. This menopause feels like a great turning or moving a lake one teaspoon at a time. The ‘maiden’ part of my life is long over, the ‘mother’ part is ending, and the ‘crone’ part is just beginning.

Slower Recovery Time

As I shared on Facebook, I recently hurt my back. Sure, I’ve hurt it before, but I recovered quickly.

Over the last few years, recovery times take longer – for everything. The nights of staying out late or having cocktails for dinner are long gone. I hesitate with one glass of wine because even that can make me feel hungover in the morning.

And mornings? Coming up and out from the depths of sleep takes longer. Getting this beautiful body out of bed and moving takes a little longer, too. Once up and going, I’m usually good to go…unless I hurt my back.

Then it’s PJ’s and books or streaming videos all day. And – as it happens – the occasional blog post.

Deepening Awareness

But feeling my age isn’t all about turning grey and slowing down. That great turning is unfolding a greater awareness of everything: of me, my world, others in my world.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve meditated and practiced mindfulness for so long, I don’t know. But there is such a deepening awareness it’s hard to put into words. It sounds poetic or hokey, like this:

I walked around my yard not long ago and said hello to all of the plants returning to life after winter. Hello to the peonies, phlox, sedum, hello to the little plum and peach trees I planted last year. I swear they talk back in their own plant way.

But this is a very real thing for me. When I choose to be aware, everything is alive. And more and more as I age, I choose awareness.

Emerging Wisdom

While I am feeling my age and talking to the plants, I have no plans to dwell in sadness or mourn the loss of youth. As a younger woman, I wrote a lot of poetry; so much so that I’m working at gathering all of those poems into a collection.

Here’s a sneak peak written by a 30-something year-old me. She was still scared of the world, scared of who she was becoming. And now? Not so scared, and not yet fully me.