Prompt 239. On a Mission

& Irene McGuinness on mailing memories

Sr. Rosemary Welsh and others at the opening of Casa de Misericordia, 1998

Hi friend,

This week I traveled to Laredo, a border town in Texas, to give a keynote at the annual fundraiser for Casa de Misericordia, a domestic violence shelter. Leading up to it, I was equal parts excited and nervous—excited to learn more about this incredible organization and the humans that make this safe haven possible, and nervous because I’m wildly out of practice when it comes to solo traveling and public speaking.

I’ve been writing into fear in my journal, inspired by a practice Elizabeth Gilbert mentioned in a Studio Visit a few years ago (which also showed up in this week’s module of the 30-day Art of Journaling project, Epistolary Journaling). Even though I’ve been at this for years, I’m always astonished at how quickly emotions like fear can alchemize into something useful and hopeful once we confront and explore them on the page. In writing into this fear, what I learned what that it’s familiar to me. It so closely echoed the fear I had ten years ago, when I was recovering from leukemia and was attempting to find my place in the world of the living. I even wrote about it in my memoir, Between Two Kingdoms:

I want to be in motion—to figure out a way to unmoor myself, to thrust myself into the greater expanses of the world. Not because I have a particular hankering to explore, but precisely because I’ve grown afraid of the world and my ability to navigate it alone.

Funnily enough, I only remembered these words after a community member named Ilene reminded me of them in the Isolation Journals Chat on Thursday. (Thank you, Ilene!) Isn’t it amazing how long it can take to learn a lesson, and how the universe keeps bopping us over the head until we do? But I also found it encouraging—because it reminded me I have muscle memory for this. I can carry these fears and coexist with them, and I can eventually overcome them.

The other thing that I realized when writing into fear was that this event wasn’t about me. My job was to be of service, to share my story as honestly and meaningfully as I could, in a way that I hoped would support this incredible organization. As soon as I arrived at the shelter, that insight became so real. In light of their life-saving mission, all my petty worries and egotistical preoccupations evaporated. The only domestic violence shelter in an 80-mile radius of Laredo, Casa de Misericordia was opened in 1998 by Sister Rosemary Welsh to provide comprehensive holistic services and long-term support for women and children—everything from safe haven to medical assistance, legal advocacy, counseling, and education.

There were so many things about this place that inspired me, so many things that were loving, thoughtful, and humane in the fullest sense of the word. The staff told me about how, when the women and children arrive, they’ve often been through a horrific ordeal, sometimes having been displaced with very little sleep and very little to eat for days. So rather than launching into intake forms and mounds of paperwork, they start with a meal. I also learned that it’s not uncommon for some of the women to return to the abusive situation, sometimes not just once, but two or three times. However, when they reappear at the shelter, there’s no shaming. Each time they show up, the staff greets them with the simple words, “Welcome home. You’re safe here.”

A homey kitchen at Casa de Misericordia

I was only in Laredo for a couple of days, but it was one of the most impactful experiences of my life. Never have I witnessed a place with such quiet power and a palpable sense of nascent hope. Never have I seen a staff of such incredible women, so attuned and responsive to the people they’re serving, so committed to ensuring their comfort, safety, and dignity. It was a necessary reminder of what it means to do service-driven, mission-driven work, and I left with a very clear head and a very clear heart. It brought back that other lesson that I’m always needing to learn: when you’re stuck in the sink sands of your own suffering, extending a hand to someone else can pull you out of it.

And now I’ll turn to today’s prompt, which is about a different kind of connection, but no less resonant. It’s from Isolation Journals community member Irene McGuinness. In the comments last week, she wrote that her 30-day journaling project has taken an epistolary form—some letters she sends, others never see the light of day. Given that this week’s Art of Journaling theme was on the power of letters for connection, confession, and finding your voice, we asked if we could share it with you. So Irene whipped up a little essay and prompt, and it’s just wonderful. Read on to see for yourself.

Sending love,

Suleika

P. S. If the work of Casa de Misericordia calls to you, and you have the means, I know they’d be grateful for your support, however big or small. You can find more info and donate here:

Some Items of Note—

• Today from 1-2 pm ET, we’ll be meeting at the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers. It’s going to be an extra special 30-day project edition—with a dreamy prompt and yours truly hosting. Find the Zoom link here!

• We’re halfway through our 30-day journaling project, and it’s been absolutely glorious. As community member Lisette said the other day, “I feel like I’m on a great adventure with dear friends.” It’s not too late to join—you can just jump in, or you can start from the beginning with Week One. More info here!

The author and her mother in 1957

Prompt 239. Mailing Memories by Irene Buninga McGuinness

I’ve always been a passionate letter writer, a delight that stems from childhood. My mom emigrated from Holland to Canada in 1951, with three small children in tow, and she was always anxious for news from back home. When a letter arrived from overseas, she would breathe a sigh of relief. It was a light blue vellum airmail letter, slightly translucent, with a thin rim of barbershop stripes around the edges. I’d watch as she carefully slid the blade of a sharp paring knife around three sides to open. It had to be done just right. If she cut the wrong side, the letter would be sliced into three pieces, cutting some sentences in half horizontally, making it difficult to read.

When the Isolation Journals launched the 30-day journaling project, I thought, What fun it’d be to keep a daily letter-writing journal! For me, writing to someone I knew was easier than just writing at random. I’m consistently writing letters, and this could bring it to a whole new level. I decided I’d start with a picture—maybe from my massive wooden chests of photographs, or from the cloud. Some letters might end up being pages long, others only a few lines in a card. If it seemed warranted, I’d send the letter—because who doesn’t like to receive a letter in their mailbox? It’s so rare these days.

I began with drafting a list of people who had birthdays coming up. I have a massive family; April appears to be a busy month. Then I added people who impacted me over the years—my husband, close friends, teachers, relatives. But why stop there? I’m known to write letters to God, so I added God to the list, and deceased family members and friends, too.

Last weekend, I wrote a letter to my mother, who passed away sixteen years ago. It was an extremely painful time. I was absent when she died, and so much was left unsaid. My pen began to flow with pain and loss. I then began distinguishing her strengths from her struggle and recalled the love evident in the silence. I remembered her laughter, which though infrequent was hearty when it erupted. I recalled sensing her disappointments, and how she stoically carried them. Her home and life were emblems of modesty, but her garden expressed otherwise. It was a riot of color.

On and on my pen flowed. My words flew from grief to gratitude that time has a way of filing down memory’s rough edges. When I finished, I was a veritable puddle. I decided to share these memories with my three sisters. The healing was instantaneous and powerful.

Your prompt for the week:

Look through your photographs—maybe in old albums, maybe on your phone—and choose a person to write to. It could be someone living or someone who has died. Write them a letter, allowing the words to flow as they will.

Then decide: Save it, or send it—and maybe a copy of the photograph too.

If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.

Today’s Contributor–

Irene McGuinness is a food writer, recipe developer, and food stylist for numerous magazines and corporations. On a hiatus from corporate work due to a health setback, and inspired by the Isolation Journals, Irene is currently a student in TWS (The Writer’s Studio) at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia, Canada. She restores her energy hiking local mountains with her dog, Ben.

For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• The 30-Day Journaling Project, where we’re exploring the art of journaling and all it can contain

• Seeking Patterns and Searching for the Why, a community discussion on what we can glean from a daily creative practice

• On Carrying Complicated Grief, an installment of Dear Susu where a mother asks for forgiveness for reading her daughter’s journals and I suggest letter-writing as absolution