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I Can’t Believe My Mother is Gone

August 28, 2014 By Laura Davis 35 Comments · · · · · · Read & Respond

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April 2014, 3 months before Temme died

I’ve been home for a few days from taking Eliza, our youngest, to college in Boston. It’s surreal to come home to no mother and no daughter, to an empty nest, the first time in 25 years that Karyn and I have not had children in our house. My mother’s death and dying still feels white hot and impossible to get close to it. I want to write about it all, to record it, but words feel insufficient, the experience so vast. It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words. The changes are so big and far-reaching, I can’t touch them. I wonder when I’ll be able to, if I’ll be able to. Right now, I feel untethered and lost and the things that feel best are eating healthy food, walking, being in nature, sitting with a friend.

Last night I said to Karyn that it wasn’t yet real to me that my mother is dead. It hasn’t sunk in that she will not reappear, that I will not be making my daily visits, fielding the emergency phone calls, listening to her tell me over and over again, “You’re the best daughter in the whole world and you’ve never given me a moment’s trouble.” I won’t be worrying about her falling or having to take her to the ER or getting yet another crisis call from Ronald at Maple House beginning with the words, “It’s your mom…”

The other day, I stood in front of our refrigerator with the door propped open. There were two drawers full of wet, moldy vegetables, aged into bagged slime while we moved Eliza to Boston, bought her nine used cold weather coats-down, fake leather, tweed, fleece, and pea. We shopped at Target, Staples, and Bed, Bath and Beyond, loading carts with extra long twin size sheets, a bulletin board, a round white sticky dot that attaches to the wall for dry-erase messages, a mesh pop up hamper, clothespins, hangers, highlighters, a coffee filter, a coffee cone (it took nine stores in Boston to find one-no one knew what we were asking for), a Tempurpedic mattress pad, and a hundred other needed items: a muted world map mounted of poster board, a ream of pure white paper, a new computer, the small ink-jet printer I sent Eli to college with that he never used. We left Eliza with ground Philz coffee, a box of throat coat tea, warm socks, and the first aid kit Karyn lovingly made for her, full of bandaids, Advil and organic remedies from Santa Cruz. We carried boxes, suitcases and bags into her dorm room, lofted her bed, spread her comforter, rolled her new sweaters, hung her clothes, organized her shoes, while she set up her bulletin board and unpacked her office supplies.

Then we drove her to the gym where she was greeted by upperclassmen dancing in silly costumes to music we didn’t recognize. Their presence, blocking the entrance to the door, was clear evidence were not meant to follow our daughter into the gym. Instead we stood, feeling old, watching her carry her gear for her pre-orientation backpacking trip through the gauntlet of greeters and didn’t look back. We turned and staggered back to the empty rented van. Our daughter didn’t live with us anymore.

On the night of our return, as I stared into the fridge, I was confronted at Eliza’s staples: white tortillas, cheddar cheese, ham, frozen boxed macaroni and cheese, all foods I do not want to eat. For 25 years our diet has been ruled by the whims and caprices of children. Now as I stared into the mostly empty, dirty fridge), I had no idea what to eat. And so I went to bed hungry.

Every time I walk into our house, I am confronted with the altar I created for my mother and two empty bedrooms. Every time I drive home, I pass Maple House, where my mother spent the last six weeks of her life. It is the place where she struggled to breathe and stopped eating and drinking. It was the place where I moistened her lips with a tiny green sponge on the end of a stick and washed her hair in bed the day before she died. It is the place where bedsores bloomed overnight, where I held her hand as she labored to die. Where we sat with her body through the night as her skin turned cool alabaster. It is the place where my brother and I watched her body lifted onto a gurney and covered with a blue velvet cloth. I touched her belly one last time and said, “I grew in there. She made me.” Then they wheeled her out the back door so the other residents wouldn’t have to see her body. Wouldn’t have to look their future in the face.

Every single time I drive by Maple House, something rips inside me and and I have to turn away.

I’ve always thought of myself as someone who likes to face my life. I like to delve beneath the surface. I like to feel it, analyze it, explore it, know it. And yet I cannot do that now. When I see my mother’s face on the desktop of my computer or accidentally start the slide show I made of our trip to Florida to see her sister, just six months ago, I quickly click away. I can’t look at the video my cousin made of her funeral. I can’t listen to the interview we did together on StoryCorps just a few years ago. Whenever I go into my office to get a file folder or retrieve a book,  I have to walk past heaps of her clothing, her blue recliner, her artwork, an ocean of her belongings. I walk past her things and pretend not to see them. I am a ghost, picking up the empty file folder or the book.  I leave as fast as I can.

Every morning I think to myself, ‘Oh, I should be writing about my mother’s death. I should write about how she tried to speak to me the day before she died, but it only came out as gibberish. I should write about the smell of decay on her breath as she lay dying. I should write about how I held her hand and stared into her eyes and traveled with her to the place between worlds. I should write about how I saw in that moment that she and I have been together in the timeless realms, stretching far before my birth and well beyond the death of her body. I should write about watching her bones glow red hot in the crematorium, the pooling of blood on her back when the hospice worker and I washed her the morning she died.

But I just can’t do it. I feel I should; I am afraid I will forget; but I can’t bear to remember. I want to record what happened, but the loss is too big for words. It is white hot and I can’t get near it. I want to open myself to take in the vastness of the changes in my life. The immensity of the grief. The loss of my mother. The launching of my daughter. No one but me to care for the first time in 25 years. But I can’t. I can only feel it in dribs and drabs. Waking up sobbing. Or feeling as if I’ve been whacked upside the head by a heavy weight in the middle of the day. The exhaustion I carry with me every moment. My irritability. The way nothing matters anymore.

I have grieved before, but not like this. I have faced change and loss and transformation before, but not like this. My life and my heart, my very self, is unrecognizable to me. I don’t know what that will mean for my life or my teaching, my writing or my relationships. All I know is that I am untethered. And I recognize that this is only the beginning of this journey.

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« Previous Post: The Ethics of Writing About Family: Laura’s Dilemma
Next Post: I Can’t Believe My Mother is Gone: Month 2 »

Comments

  1. Kim Tyler says

    August 30, 2014 at 7:41 am

    Oh Laura, my dear. I am so sad for you. Such huge losses/changes, and you are floating like a little raft in the middle of these stormy seas. Daniella, years ago when her mom died, found great support and sustenance in attending a grief support group offered through Hospice. I would imagine they still offer them, and it might be somewhere to turn where you will find others who are struggling as you are. In the meantime, know that you are greatly loved by so many of us. My heart reaches out to you!

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 30, 2014 at 2:26 pm

      Thanks, Kim. I’m sure I will attend a Hospice group when the next one rolls around. I did that when my dad died 14 years ago and I got a lot from it. Thanks for your love and support. I feel you!

      Reply
      • Lilith Rogers says

        August 31, 2014 at 2:19 pm

        Oh, Laura,

        I’m sorry to read of your mother’s death and your deep despair. Many hugs and kisses to you, dear.

        And now Eliza is off to her new life.

        Many closings and openings all at once. Be patient with yourself in this time of change.

        Blessings,
        Lilith

        Reply
        • Laura Davis says

          September 1, 2014 at 9:52 am

          Thanks, Lilith. It is a strange and transformative time. Sometimes it feels ordinary; other times altered. I’m noticing my level of fatigue is higher, my stamina diminished. I think that goes with the territory.

          Reply
          • Paula Alder says

            September 2, 2014 at 10:05 am

            Laura, I am so sorry about your mother and while i don’t know exactly how you feel, since no one can really know another’s full experience, reading your words gave voice to my own experience– with my parents, my own daughter, the feelings that are so overwhelming and foreign. My daughter is getting ready to give birth soon, and I feel incredible joy, mixed with the memories of my mother’s quick death so long ago, my father’s long decline and death, all the grief about losses– my divorce, my daughter moving away–all this mixed with incredible (and unknown) hopes for the future– I do know that somehow I’ve moved through it or with it, on to the next life change. And yet, it’s still challenging and the feelings can resurface at any time and my heart is with you.
            Love to you,
            Paula

          • Laura Davis says

            September 2, 2014 at 11:10 am

            Thanks Paula. As we get older is huge life changes accumulate, don’t they? I guess it’s all about flexibility and the ability to weather change, ride the waves of grief, while continuing to open to joy.

      • Laura Brown says

        September 21, 2014 at 4:01 am

        Dear Laura,
        I just read your post about losing your mom, and I am sending warm hugs from VT, hoping they reach you just when you need them most. Thank you for sharing so much of yourself with us, and guiding many, including myself, to the transformations they seek. Please take wonderful care of yourself in this time of grief, and know that there are many people here on the East Coast ready to help if your daughter needs anything!
        love,
        Laura

        Reply
        • Laura Davis says

          September 21, 2014 at 7:17 am

          Thanks for your kind words Laura. On a happier note, I’m flying to Boston next weekend to check in on both my kids. That is something that makes me happy!

          Reply
  2. Diana Williams says

    August 30, 2014 at 8:00 am

    I’ve saved this in my reading list for rereading. It brought up so many memories for me of the chasm into which I plunged seven years ago this summer when my own mother died. It took me three years before I could write a small piece about the night and day it took her to finally pass over and then I put it in a drawer for another four years before finally sharing it in a workshop. For those of us who have always found solace, redemption, definition in words, in reading and writing, it is shattering that there are some passages in our lives that leave us so gobsmacked, hit along side the head, as you said, that we are left in a stunned silence. Well, you have given it a start in this post but you should allow yourself time to heal and deal without the pressure to put it all into words just yet. The wound is still fresh. It will scab over in time although expect to pick at it and reopen the wound many times before the scar sets. Meanwhile, try to take care of yourself as best you can.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 30, 2014 at 1:01 pm

      Thanks, Diana for sharing this. It helped me feel seen and heard.

      Reply
  3. Lorri Scott says

    August 30, 2014 at 8:37 am

    There is a blank space that will close and reopen as time goes on. When you mentioned Ronald at MapleHouse it brought back memories of my mother-in-law who was housed there. Ronald is a wonderful caregiver/overseer. Rose’s last few years were the MapleHouse. My husband Michael and his friend Danny would play and sing music for the residents and we’d go sing Christmas carols with them in Dec. It was a lot of fun to see them enjoying it so much and singing along if they could. I love the photo of you and Temme and think she just looks so young and spry! I’m sorry for your loss but you have good memories to hang onto and cherish. xo

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 30, 2014 at 1:01 pm

      Yes, Maple House is a special place. It wasn’t the right fit for my mom because at the time she moved in, she needed more specialized care than they could offer, but the place was always filled with genuine compassion and love.

      Reply
  4. Mary Bucklew says

    August 30, 2014 at 12:03 pm

    I have stood where you stand now. Unable to fathom the vast todays and tomorrows I will spend on this earth without my Mom. Bereft by the bottomless loss that makes my chest ache and eyes water and my shoulders heave without warning. She passed away 15 years ago this summer, and I can assure you, if I may, that things do get “better” — but I still carry around a small hollow space in my heart even now that cannot be filled because she is gone.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 30, 2014 at 1:02 pm

      Thanks, Mary. I feel that way about my dad. He died 14 years ago. And this year the anniversary of his death passed me right by. I had forgotten. That was unbelievable to me!

      Reply
  5. Mary Bucklew says

    August 30, 2014 at 12:05 pm

    And it DOES change or CAN change all of your relationships. In profound and often bittersweet ways.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 30, 2014 at 1:02 pm

      I’m hoping it does. I’m open to that. Don’t want to get in the way.

      Reply
  6. Sunny says

    August 31, 2014 at 6:57 am

    Laura;
    The past five years have devastated me – from losing our houses & business, moving to TX where the environment was so permeated by my brother’s cruelty that I sent my children back to CA (not a good place either, but not quite as bad), trying to take care of my father and his business despite my brother’s bullying, moving back to CA at the mercy of a horrible mover only to find my husband living with another woman and having divorce papers thrown at me the morning after I arrived, the divorce (still ongoing over 3 years later), breaking my leg/hip in four places, etc., etc. and no closure on anything yet.

    I understand being “untethered.”

    Getting through the day is often enough for me and through this process I am learning to be patient with myself. Like you, I’ve always just jumped in and fixed things; took care of people, but recognize I’m not even to the ‘rebuild my life’ stage yet. I work a bit (taking care of elderly), have managed to maintain a great relationship with my kids and am working on forgiving my husband – but that’s it. Except for a few poems, I don’t write. I can’t paint or play piano. I’ve been through some very dry spells in terms of creativity before in my life (like when my mom died) and am comforted by the fact that I have rebounded and for the better.

    I still avoid many aisles in the grocery store so I don’t cry.

    No time limits, here, my friend. You’ve been through a lot. My prayers are with you and thank you for sharing.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 31, 2014 at 7:06 am

      Thanks Sunny. And as I read (and remember) what you’ve been through, I am also grateful for the grounding and community I do have.

      Reply
  7. Sheila Coonerty says

    August 31, 2014 at 7:20 am

    I was stunned in reading this how quickly it took me back to mother loss, to empty house after my daughter left, to trying to find my bearings and finding I had none. And these things happened a year apart for me, not together. I was stunned in reading this to feel that loss again straight through all the way into my heart, stunned that you could capture so well that which has you reeling. This writing, as incomplete as it seems to you in describing the loss of your mom, goes straight into the heart of it all. And in doing that, it made me want to put my arms around you even as I felt lost again in my own sorrow.

    And then there was the going of your daughter, at the same time. Oh, Lord.

    Please take care of yourself, be kind to yourself as if you had walking right beside you a small girl, lost and in shock after a missile striking her home had also taken away some of those she loved. That little girl, of course is you, but you can’t see that so clearly now, so just believe it. And ask yourself, what would you give her, what will keep her body and heart alive while she reels with pain and loss beyond describing. Then do those things for yourself.

    And, when you can, let others take care of and love you. And remind yourself, all of the time, that you cannot see clearly now, but that you know this: your very self has been shattered, that you must wait to find the way out. And accept what you cannot do.

    Early this week, someone posted on Facebook a plea from a New Jersey animal shelter to take a dog that had to be relinquised by his family after three years with that family. It described how the dog, upon seeing the family leave him, began to moan and cry and did not stop. The shelter said the dog was loving and friendly and easy in personality, but that it was in danger of dying of a broken heart if they did not get him to a home that could love him. The tears rolled down my cheeks and I have been haunted by that dog since, although he is far away and most likely has a home now. After a day or two, during which I contemplated flying to NJ to get him, I realized that the story had awakened in me the mourning, the inconsolability and enormity of the loss of my mother and the loss of all that life had been for me. In reading about the depths of the dog’s pain, I was haunted by my own. This morning, while I read your blog, I heard the dog howling again in my mind. And I wanted to find you the home, the love, to relieve your suffering. Of course, I know that you have that love in your life. And yet, despite my wish, it cannot relieve the suffering much at all now. And I am so sorry.

    All I can think of right now is a poem of Ellen Bass’ that I have on my computer desktop, a poem that got me through some of the worst moments of loss, dislocation and aloneness in my life. Perhaps it will ring true to you. If not, that is fine, just know that my heart is with you. Here it is:

    You do not know the breaking through
    as it happens. You are in the mine
    axing, axing and the metal dust
    makes it hard to breathe–there are minutes you
    give breathing up, your work is elsewhere.
    Lifting great arms, slamming stone
    your body must let go
    or shatter. You blink sweat.
    You cannot feel your hands, so full with blood.
    They will pulsate, later
    they will tremble. But now
    they are ax, you are ax, and you
    do not know what you are doing.

    After, after you will look.
    You will acknowledge. You will
    see through the opening you have cleared.

    –Ellen Bass

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 31, 2014 at 7:26 am

      Thanks for this, Sheila. I was moved by your story of the dog. And the poem–wonderful. As is all of Ellen’s poetry.

      Reply
  8. Mo Cleary says

    August 31, 2014 at 8:44 am

    What strikes me from the beautiful, powerful writing you did here is how deeply and truly you lived this time with your mother and how generously you shared it with all of us.

    I can’t imagine a greater testimony to love than to deeply, openly, generously being present to every moment.

    The circle of community of all of us who have been touched by your work Laura, are around you now, holding you during this time of sorrow and transition.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 31, 2014 at 9:02 am

      Thanks, Mo. Your words mean a lot.

      Reply
    • sandra dubow azmitia says

      August 31, 2014 at 12:49 pm

      As I approach end of life issues, the more intimate relationships here and in the beyond. Temme and I speak in prayer. We remember together. Silence is powerful. Meditation enables us to move beyond the physical. Words are not enough. We are the miracles. We are the music. We are partners in creation.

      Reply
      • Laura Davis says

        September 1, 2014 at 9:59 am

        I’m with you in spirit…yes. I wish I could feel my mother more, but so far, no messages from beyond. She’s in me, though.

        Reply
  9. Lee Xan says

    August 31, 2014 at 9:33 am

    That photo is wonderful and the similarity in noses and smiles as well. Thanks for letting us in to this difficult time of transitions. The upperclassmen blocking the families, the letting goes and the hangings on. The details of the preparations for sending off. And the echoes of sendings off. The presences still felt.

    And all the sensory details, the paragraph so vivid–that ends with the velvet and the wheeling away and the direction so others do not see. This was all so vivid.

    Words that honor…the people leaving, the people we drive to their new destinations, or honor right where we are and have been…are so full of value. Thank you.
    Lee

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 31, 2014 at 9:46 am

      You’re welcome, Lee. Thanks for taking the time to write in.

      Reply
  10. Carolina Evans-Roman says

    August 31, 2014 at 12:30 pm

    Querida Laura, My heart aches for what you are experiencing. Your line “I’m afraid I’ll forget, but I can’t bear to remember” says it all. You will never forget and there will be a time when you can remember without the pain. You have always reminded us in class that a writer needs the distance from emotional laden experiences to be able to write clearly and reflect on them. Give yourself the time and your heart and soul will be ready to give these experiences to the world. For now do just what you are doing, sharing what you can. I could not write about my mother’s death for at least 25 years and when I did, I sobbed and cried as I wrote and when I shared with the group I could hardly be understood. This was at one of your retreats at the Land of the Medicine Buddha. At the end of my reading I apologized for not being able to express my musings, which was the purpose of our writing, and was told that that I would be able to do so in time.
    Take good care of yourself and know that you are loved by many. See you soon.
    Con cariños,
    Carolina

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      September 1, 2014 at 10:00 am

      Thanks Carolina. I appreciate the reminder. Sometimes the teacher needs to hear her own words spoken back to her.

      Reply
  11. Karen Welch says

    September 1, 2014 at 1:46 pm

    Dear Laura,
    I am so sorry for the loss of your sweet mama. I feel like i knew her a bit from all your writings…. these times of beginnings and endings – often so unsettling. Know that you are wrapped with lots of warmth and compassion as you move with this….
    KW

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      September 1, 2014 at 1:59 pm

      Thanks Karen for your kind words.

      Reply
  12. Joanna says

    September 2, 2014 at 7:59 am

    I am sorry Laura. I remember a post you wrote in February while we were both at the San Miguel Writers’ Conference. You spoke of your mother’s own joyful times in San Miguel, and how her disease had made it impossible for her to ever travel to Mexico again.

    That was only six months ago.

    Now your daughter is at college, starting a new chapter of her life, and your mom’s life has ended. Your two most intense relationships have changed course – it is no wonder you feel like you’ve been “whacked upside the head by a heavy weight. ”

    Because that is exactly what has happened to you.

    It is impossible to recover overnight from a double-whammy like this. No one is that strong. My mother has been gone for 12 years and I still ache – not all day, every day – but the pain of losing her has not gone away

    And I feel like an orphan.

    Be kind to yourself. If you feel you cannot fulfill some of your commitments – bow out – people will understand. But as you move along through the grieving process, your work will save you. It am sure it will.

    I know this is true, because mine saved me.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      September 2, 2014 at 8:24 am

      Joanna, I’m trying to find that balance right now–between how much work to do and what to let go of. The sweet spot of having some focus and some grounding in the world, and leaving myself free to roam and have open space….

      Reply
  13. Adrienne Drake says

    September 27, 2014 at 12:51 pm

    Dear Laura,
    Thank you for so vividly sharing with us the enormity of your grief. Everything here is so poignant and powerful, and so validating for those who have intense feelings around the loss of a mother. This is even more touching given your sad time of estrangement. It was your mutual agreement to agree to disagree, and because of that, the two of you were able to complete the cycle of the mother-daughter relationship in the healthiest of ways! That must bring you intense satisfaction as you review the many details of times shared with your sweet mother.
    So well done and so instructive for us all,
    Adrienne

    Reply
  14. Mary N. Bucklew says

    August 27, 2016 at 11:02 am

    Two years worth of perspective… many trips… I thought of you, Laura, this morning, and wondered, with two years distance, have you begun to see the golden frame that highlights the memory of your Mom in your mind’s eye? Do the corners of your mouth turn upward into a warm smile when a memory of her suddenly explodes in your mind? The pangs are always there – the wanting to share, the wishing to hear her voice… but the agony ebbs, replaced by an unmistakable feeling of closeness, of her being just out of range of your vision, but close enough to feel her cosmic embrace.

    Reply
    • Laura Davis says

      August 27, 2016 at 11:11 am

      Mary, my perspective on her is changing, but because I’ve been writing about her pretty steadily all aspects of her are still in pretty clear focus…no soft focused memory yet…but I mostly have good feelings about her death…she really passed something powerful on to me in her passing.

      Reply

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About Laura Davis

In the course of my career as a communicator, I have also worked as a columnist, talk show host, radio reporter, radio producer, blogger, editor, and speaker. Words have always been at the core of my work and my self-expression. Read More . . .

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    "Laura's writing retreat was a rare and beautiful gift. It was a real treat to be with an eclectic, quiet, exuberant, creative group of people gathered to write our hearts out. Laura created a safe, accepting space for us to let go and pour ourselves onto the page. There were no red letter Fs for us-just lots of great food, a beautiful setting and a wealth of wild writing."

    --Jamie Willamon, stay-at-home mom and retreat participant

  • "Laura is a gifted writing teacher. Her prompts have changed my relationship to writing, making my words more natural and spontaneous. I have begun to remember events from my past more completely and vividly than before. That has been a great gift for me."

    --Linda Wright

    "Laura has a unique combination of skills: her own talents as a writer, her clarity and gentle guidance as a teacher, and her fierce commitment to supporting others in finding their own unique voice. Taken together, these are rare and precious gifts."

    -- Terresa Lauer, grateful, blossoming WRITER!

  • "What is most compelling to me about Laura's work is the wonderful balance she conveys, both in person and in her writing, between being both a teacher and an ongoing, active learner. She is completely credible as she shares both her own and others' stories for the benefit of mutual learning. This is a relief from the more "expert" point of view, which has a way of making me feel small and disengaged."

    --Kerry Messer, workshop participant, Oakland, California

    "Laura’s constant encouragement and inspiration has pushed me to pursue my real dream of making a career of writing."

    --Larae Ross

  • "I would encourage anyone who has even a passing interest in developing themselves as a writer, or who feels "stuck" personally and is looking for some tools to push them to a new level to develop a writing practice using Laura’s prompts. I guarantee you will be changed by this experience!

    --Nancy Cohen

    "This is my third retreat with Laura. They get better and deeper and more adventurous each time, as I return to experience writing in another beautiful place with inspired people that become friends. Each return, I come not knowing what will happen, grateful that I did, and leave transformed.”

    --Marie Hanson, Reno, Nevada

  • "I am so grateful to have you as my writing teacher. Without your keen instruction and astute instincts, writing would still be a vague yearning inside of me. Perhaps the most effective technique in your teaching bag of tricks is not a tool at all, but your steadfast willingness to fearlessly, beautifully put yourself on paper. The perfect original lesson of demonstration still tops them all."

    --Nancy Miner

    “Just when I thought I couldn't write anymore, I did. I wrote and wrote and wrote again—more than I imagined possible—truly transforming my view of myself. Thank you!”

    --Laura Grace Brown, Peru, Vermont

  • "We all come to Laura because we want to write, or write more, or write better. Through writing practice, we do each of these things and slowly but surely, we evolve into writers. Laura has the insight, the patience, and the steadiness that guides even the most unsure among us out into the open and onto the page."

    --Zoe Elizabeth

    "Laura is a gifted writing teacher. Working with her has changed my relationship to writing, making my words more natural and spontaneous. I have begun to remember events from my past more completely and vividly than before. That has been a great gift for me."

    --Linda Wright

  • "Laura Davis is a phenomenal teacher, mentor and coach. She is smart, insightful and really knows how to listen. She knows when to encourage, when to step out of the way, and when to push. Because Laura has faced her demons, she is not afraid of life's deepest challenges. Her clarity and insight helped me find the courage to bring all of who I am into my writing and into my life. The openness and warmth of Laura's heart is matched by the wealth of experience she brings as a successful author. For an aspiring writer, that's an unbeatable combination."

    Jacalyn Buettner DC, first-time author, currently finishing Head, Heart, Hands, a book on women in chiropractic

  • "Laura Davis is an exceptionally warm, motivating teacher. I never considered myself a writer until I took her workshop. Her caring attitude, personal concern for my well-being and progress, as well as her years of experience, inspired me to become a writer. I am writing almost every day now and will publish my first piece in October."

    --Kathy Williams, singer and songwriter

    “Working with Laura Davis, I found the perfect combination of direction, inspiration, permission, and community. With Laura’s guidance, I was able to discover and develop the writer inside of me who had been waiting in darkness my whole life for the support and safety to emerge.”

    ---Terresa Lauer

  • "Laura Davis writes with heart and soul and offers a path to self-love, compassion for others, community, and inner peace."

    --Wendy Maltz, M.S.W., Author of The Sexual Healing Journey

    "Laura Davis is a remarkable woman. She brings so much to her teaching sessions, all of which are individual and carefully planned to draw out the best writing from her students. She is very caring, attentive, and approachable. Her teaching style is one of gentle encouragement without judgment. New writers feel welcomed and seasoned writers enjoy the ease of writing in a warm, familiar setting."

    --Nancy Hofmann

  • “The change evoked by my experience with Laura did not reveal itself fully until long after the retreat ended—and the changes showed up in my ordinary life. I was inspired to write, join a writer’s group, and write some more. The transformation was evident, too, in how limber and clear my professional writing became. I began writing with an ease and speed that was totally unexpected. And these changes have stayed with me.”

    --Karla Fischer, Champaign, Illinois

    "Laura brings a sense of ritual to the habits of daily writing which makes something magical of the routine."

    --Sherri Paris

  • As a veteran journalist, I delved into Laura's retreat with both confidence and trepidation: confidence in my competence as a writer; trepidation about stepping out of my comfort zone to write in a completely different way. Laura's writing circle was instructive and provocative, serene and playful. She has a unique ability to inspire novices, published authors and everyone in between. I arrived knowing no one and said goodbye to newfound friends. A memorable and life-changing experience.

    --Talin Vartanian, Toronto, Canada, CBC Radio producer and broadcaster

    “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your work is essential and full of love.”

    --workshop participant

  • "When I began working with Laura Davis, I'd carried hundreds of stories around in my head for five and a half decades. Laura helped me breathe life into the words that had waited so long to hear their voices spoken aloud. Her steady guidance and open-hearted engagement with the writer in me was the form of nourishment I needed to begin my long journey as a writer. I am so grateful to Laura for the gift she is."

    --Paula Mahoney

    "As I develop my authentic voice, Laura has helped me develop techniques, confidence and a discernment that quells my overzealous inner critic."

    --Emily Bording

  • “Thank you, Laura, for a powerful retreat. You are an extraordinary teacher—your warmth, your humor, your wisdom and your insight provide a safe haven for all of us on the Writer’s Journey. The pacing of the writing experience was remarkable. I loved being able to relax into the experience, knowing it was safe to go deeper and deeper.”

    --Belinda Carter, Sacramento, CA

    “My book now feels more real. I believe it’s actually possible to complete it and be proud of it.”

    --Mel Dion, writing a novel

    “Your presence is strong, compassionate, reassuring. I received hope and strength—a vision for myself.”

    --workshop participant

  • “I've watched Laura reach many different writers at their levels—offering just the right comment to help each writer discover something deeper about his or her process. Laura also offers so much of herself to her students—her life experiences, humor, writing practice, and expertise in the world of publishing. Having access to such a professional mentor is not an opportunity to be missed!”

    --Laurie Simpkinson

  • "I love working with Laura. I use her prompts to write memoir material that is healing and liberating. If I choose to read, I am witnessed and held by the group in my authenticity. There is no feedback, judgment, or opinion. I find the opportunity to reveal my personal history in this way rare, powerful, and of great psychological and emotional benefit. Laura participates fully and I find her a profound role model."

    --Cliff Haggerty

    “Heartfelt gratitude to you for offering a place where I could be BRAVE and INVINCIBLE!”

    --Alexandra Morgan, Orinda, CA

  • “Your open, warm heart made trusting you easy. Writing a first book, especially given my painful academic experiences, was not only mentally challenging, but forced me to confront many personal myths. Your support, genuine empathy and non-judgmental attitude got me over some very old, tall hurdles. You also took me seriously and held me to the task of being a writer and that made me a writer.”

    Sydney Sauber

    “Laura Davis is a highly successful, published author who also knows how to create and hold a space for you to grow into the writer you want to become. She’s a warm, open person and an encouraging yet honest teacher.”

    --Gayle Yamauchi-Gleason, Santa Cruz, CA

  • “Writing to Laura’s prompts and then sharing what we wrote was an amazing, powerful deeply transformative experience. I feel like seeds have been planted for me to begin to really develop as a writer.”

    --Alissa Ferranto, San Rafael, CA

    “For years I’ve wanted to write to experience my own voice and deepen the listening I might have with the Truth of my life. One of the obstacles to my engaging with writing has been feeling isolated. In Laura’s workshops, I feel connected and privileged as a writer in community. Being in her workshop has been a gift to dissolve the other obstacles—that of feeling exposed.”

    --Emmah Smyth, Santa Clara

  • “Laura Davis’ writing workshop will draw ideas and stories from you that you didn’t even know were there. The workshop’s well thought-out method encourages making connections and putting new order into familiar experiences.”

    --Marianne Huber, Dixon, Illinois

    “Laura Davis has revolutionized my relationship to writing. She has shown me that writing can be free and fun. I do not have to face a blank page and wonder how to tell my story. Her prompts lead the way into my soul.”

    --Shannon LaGrandier, Santa Cruz, CA

  • “Laura Davis provides an open, welcoming environment to explore your writing and your self. The class is both beautifully curated and is supportive of both creativity and personal journey. Laura’s workshop created a framework in which I could connect to vivid memories and build my practice of writing.”

    --Sarah Van Aven, Philadelphia

    “I’ve always thought I’d like to write to get my ideas and visions across—to convey my dreams to people and to help them with their own dreams. I feel now, after this workshop, that this may be possible.”

    --Fawaz Mourad, Lebanon

Recent Comments

  • Merisha Wazna Actually, I just realized that in the Chinese horoscope, I was born in the year of the rabbit. Ha! Ha! Ha! – Dec 04, 10:51 AM
  • Merisha Wazna Thank you! The hardest thing for me is to put myself into the picture. I flood my life with people, places, and projects until I... – Dec 04, 10:02 AM
  • Anita Furtado Oh my gosh what a wonderful story! I cannot tell you how much I admire your writing. You bring me right there. I feel the... – Dec 04, 3:32 AM
  • Anita Furtado I so love your writing and relate on all levels God bless you my sister. Is in the universe wonderful? – Dec 04, 3:25 AM
  • Anita Furtado Marisha your comments touched my soul in a beautiful way and open my mind to a new appreciation of the things I have left in... – Dec 04, 3:24 AM
  • Katie Advice my father gave me after a divorce: "Close that door and open another." And it works! – Dec 03, 11:26 AM

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Recent Posts

Turning Points

“There are two kinds of daily life: the life in time, and the life in values: something ... [Continue Reading]

Other Posts:

  • My Loneliness
  • When the Bill Comes Due
  • Writing as Transformation

Writing Retreats

Whether you are a beginner, an established writer, a published author, or are looking for a creative vacation with your spouse…I have a retreat for you.

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