The Writing Group

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When I smell the fresh sea air of home, I know I’m in the place where I belong. Fresh sea air brings visions of beaches I would go to as a child and young adult. I can see the sea gulls hovering, waiting for a chance to grab a chip or cracker. I can feel the soft, warm sand on my feet, waiting to be fashioned into a castle or perhaps a town. And always the surf is rolling in and out, threatening the castle or town with destruction.

I always love the feel of the cold ocean water. It is invigorating and makes me feel alive. When I go into the ocean, I allow my body to go numb. Then I can stay in the water for a long time, body surfing the waves.

I also love climbing the rocks, staring into the little pools made by the waves at high tide that have clams and barnacles living in them. I love staring out to the horizon. Staring out to its vastness makes my problems seem small and insignificant. They don’t amount to a lot in the face of all the huge problems the world is facing.

On our first wedding anniversary my husband and I were supposed to go on a daylong sail on Casco Bay. Unfortunately the rain poured that day and we didn’t get to go. I’ve always wanted to do that. Sailing for a day on Casco Bay is on my bucket list.

Perhaps living in a town close to the sea is part of who I am as a person. I need to be able to smell that fresh sea air. I need to be able to see those sea gulls flying overhead. I need to know that the ocean is not too far away.

~Cathy Lynch

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The Writing Group: Foreword

The people who contributed to this collection of pictures, poetry and prose range roughly in age from thirty to eighty. Some live or have lived in the Tedford Shelter or in their cars or in tents in the woods; some live in subsidized housing. Some are unemployed; some live on disability checks; some have part time or seasonal jobs; others are retired.

What we all have in common is The Gathering Place at 5 Tenney Way, Brunswick, which is open Monday through Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. for coffee, snacks, companionship, cards, puzzles and on Thursday afternoons for writing.

Over the past four years, I’ve hosted anywhere from one to a dozen writers who have shared stories, laughed (a lot), and cried (a little). I usually throw out a general topic—the first, as I recall, was “Scars,” and the latest, as I write this, was “Doors I have Walked Through--- although people can (and do) write about anything that is on their minds. Some of the topics I’ve given will be self-evident as you read; other topics won’t matter: what’s important is the response. Some of the pieces have been edited from grammar and spelling, but we’ve tried to maintain the original voice and content.

When we first began writing four years ago, some people thought we were having an English class, so they moved as far away from our table as they could; when we began sharing what we’d written, however, they can back, at first to listen, and then over the next few weeks, to join us.

Why? For many of us, writing is a way to make sense of the world, especially when our minds are looping around a particular problem. What I’ve also learned is that all of us need to be heard—listened to, respected—especially if we’ve fallen on hard times and feel that no one care anymore.

What else have I learned over the past four years? Probably the most important thing is that despite common stereotypes, homelessness and poverty have many faces, many voices and that both homelessness and poverty go far beyond not having a physical place to live or a specific job to get to. “Homeless” might mean losing a job that has given you an identity for twenty years, losing a spouse, a child or a friend, losing your health. “Poverty” may mean any number of spiritual or emotional deprivations.

Someone once said that going into The Gathering Place, he couldn’t tell who was a volunteer and who was a client. Four years of writing and listening to stories have shown me that’s because there really isn’t that much of a difference between any of us.

--Rick Wile
Writing Group
The Gathering Place