A Young Woman Writer Compares Her College Writing Experience With Her Experience at Women Writing for (a) Change

Dear Mary,

My name is Meaghan Reynolds. We met in Burlington, VT at the event Sarah threw at the Burlington Center for the Arts. When we met, you were introduced to Kyle, my roommate, who commented on the organic growth of your organization likened metaphorically to the passing on of DNA and he expanded upon the metaphor to include the knowledge of mitochondrial DNA who, with its genetic robustness, is passed on maternally.

We also discussed my experience with the organization and the difference between my college experience with poetic growth versus the growth I've experienced through WWf(a)C. You asked me if I would write something for your website about my writing journey from one place to the other. I apologize sincerely for how long it has taken me to get this to you and can only say that it is typical of my process for me to ruminate for a long time on a subject before committing thought to paper, or computer memory, as the case may be. I can say now, that I have completed the piece you asked for.

I am aware it may be a bit long, so if you feel it needs any editing or wish to just take a chunk of it, feel free to do so. In fact, I am aware that you may not use it at all, but I do wish you to read it that you may be aware of what a profound impact your organization has had not only on my writing life, but my life in general. If you need anything else from me, please do not hesitate to ask.

Thank you again for your time and this space.

Sincerely,
Meaghan Reynolds

When I was in college, I was a woman within a body. I only say this because while much of the poetry I wrote for my thesis centered on this, my thesis professor who advised me was largely forced to ignore it. The intimate, the feminine, the frightening and the affirming, all things I grappled with, were oriented in my body and were, therefore, too awkward for my male advisor to grapple with alongside me. I am not criticizing him or even calling him incompetent, he was and is a brilliant teacher, I only referto the limits of our relationship as female student and male professor and all the difficult implications made within vigilantly ethical academic communities. He was afraid to cross boundaries of conversation and, given that there are comparatively few known spaces for discussing, and also validating, the feminine in male-dominated academia, he was understandably hesitant to take such a risk. He even admitted this to me.
And where did this leave me? To be honest, I felt inexplicably limited. I learned about structure, rhythm, metaphor, cadence, but I felt as though, without thoroughly discussing my most prevalent themes, I was building a house beginning with window treatments.

I have come to believe that to read and write poetry is to make the self. Through keen observation, ready allusion, the almost impulsive urge to connect and what I can only call luck, for lack of a better single word to describe a myriad of known and unknown factors, an expansion of consciousness occurs. One learns better the contours of his or her mind, from there, garners a greater understanding of the fluid body of his or her self. How could I begin this process that I sensed to be so necessary without some guidance? I was a babe in the woods without enough knowledge of myself, of my contours, to keep from crashing into trees and falling asleep hungry in the dark. 

It was after two years of persevering alone like this that I found Women Writing for (a) Change in Burlington, VT. Within this circle of women, I experienced first hand the sort of organic growth of understanding and community that I have always believed in but lacked the words or framework to properly articulate. The scope and vision of this group goes beyond what the organization can even consummately express because they create a container for potentially limitless growth. This container, poetic in its symbolic ability to empower and validate women’s voices, has no end because the power of women’s voices is without end. Power was once something I thought to be exclusively defined externally by status or number of degrees or validating achievements. However here, within the writing circle through its penetrating practice, power is internal: personal, intimate and grown over time as a communal effort between the women present. Whether I thought I needed it or not that I found power of my own, in the fair hearing of my words and the intimate recording of my personal expansion. This power allowed me write the words I had to write, find direction for the voice I have always had but never allowed to sing.
One of the first articles I read for WWf(a)C was “Saving the Life that is Your Own” by Alice Walker. I have interpreted this as a directive. My voice and I, that indiscreet, inextricably linked pair, needed saving and it was through my words and those of the women in the circle that I learned to do it myself. WWf(a)C gave me this container, and, now I know what I have always suspected, that I, much like the container, am absolutely limitless.