A Literary Retreat...
02/04/21
I was excited to be returning to my home state of New York when I was invited in 2003 to the Amigal’s Literary Retreat at Camp Mariah in Fishkill, New York hosted by Dr. Gwen Parker Ames. Though it was ‘Upstate’ and hundreds of miles from my birthday place of Queens, doing something ‘literary’ in New York was a thrill for me.
Before I even boarded the plane, the event started off special. I ran into Author Evelyn Coleman, who’d claimed me as her literary daughter two year’s prior, when before heading my plane, I made a stop to restroom. Seeing her again was pure joy. When we got to the boarding gate, there was Angela Reid of the Imani Book Club; the purple of her shirt signaling her presence and reminding me of the wonderful book club meeting her group had hosted for me a while back.
Right before we boarded, Author R.M. Johnson appeared. Though I had never met him, I had glanced enough of his books to know the face. Recognizing Angela, he quickly joined the group. There we were, the four of us—three authors and one book club member—bonding before we even arrived. With liveliness, we talked about the fate of black fiction, where we, as writers, were headed and where we needed to go as we waiting to board.
The Retreat was a delight. Before long, it was Sunday Morning and we’d gathered for departure in the cavernous dining hall. Busy, occupied and full of a hearty breakfast, traveling back home was on our minds.
Then a voice, soft and ethereal, gently asked: “Will you come?”
Bags had been packed. E-mail addresses and business cards exchanged and too many hugs to count had been given. Behind us were the workshops that we walked to between raindrops, authorspeak moments and Open-Mike night.
We had come together as a powerhouse of womanhood, the Written Word and a few male authors sprinkled in. We’d welcomed each other, hearts opened, reveling in the gifts we so willingly shared. But Sunday Morning was here, and all of us were readying to go back to our nine-to-fives, laundry, husbands, children—that place we called home.
“Will you join us?” came the words, drifting through the maze of wearied but peaceful chatter that rose up as goodbyes drew us in clumps; smiles and camera flashes lighting up the dining hall like tiny nova’s.
“Will you?’ came the voice again, non-church going folks like me in heavy debate of, will I? It had been announced that a “Sunday Service" would be held outside and all were invited to participate. At the time I didn’t see myself going (still living in the ‘don’t go to church’ world.) After hearing the request, I wasn't sure.
Would I do what I normally didn’t do--attend a fellowship service on a Sunday morning when my soul was already filled? The weekend had recharged me, energized me. The fellowship had already happened and I was complete.
I looked out onto the gray morning beyond the arched panes of glass and timber. Searched for the face behind the voice that asked so patiently and lovingly to come and give thanks to God. Saw a warm-brown, dread-headed sister issuing the call. Later I would come to know her as Zoleka Adams, an ordained Baptist Minister. But in that moment, she was a bell, tolling softly, calling us to gather. “Come join us and give the Creator the glory,” she offered as my mind flitted back into the weekend.
So many people who impacted my life were there. So many people who helped me in my journey to become an author had participated. There was Grace Edwards (may she rest in peace,) author of the Mali Anderson series, who gave me a blurb when I was a ‘newbie’ in the author world. Author Evelyn Palfrey, whose novels are legendary for both humor and truth, kept things lively during the weekend with her real-life stories. Author Donna Hill, who had hosted my fabulous ‘welcome home’ book-signing event at the Queens Public Library where I worked as a teenager and dreamed of becoming an author, was there. Author Francis Ray (may she rest in peace,) another invitee, was as sweet and humble as ever.
Virginia Deberry and Donna Grant—authors whose writing style is so ‘one-voiced,’ the first time I met them, I couldn’t stop asking how they did it, were there. I had sat on a panel with Author Bernice McFadden—her arrival to the session sending me into a five-minute crying spell because I felt so honor to meet her and sit next to her.
I’d got the chance to meet Author Nathasha Brooks, someone I hadn’t met but had conversed with through e-mail when she got the wonderful idea to help a troubled education system in Alabama by having fellow authors donate school supplies. Gregory Morris, Author of Zon, who’d appeared at another book functions I attended was there with his lovely, supporting wife, treating us to a wonderful spiritual duet.
I met Author Marcus Major for the first time, face-to-face. Before then we’d chatted on the phone and exchanged e-mails. He had been kind enough to send my niece an autograph copy of his book at my request and it was great to finally meet him.
Toni Staton Harris, another author I had previously met, gave me an autograph copy of her book and before I could thank her, disappeared out the room.
Jeanette Wallington, a book reviewer I’d become friendly with was there. Whenever she visited her family in Georgia we’d try and get together. And, the evening before our departure, Pam of Imani Book Club received a fabulous makeover, where she modeled her new look to applauds and whistles.
“Will you come with us?” the voice asked again. The need to do so wasn’t immediate. The whole weekend had been spiritual. The whole weekend had been uplifting. Was attending a service even necessary?
I had had my ‘fellowshipped’ with familiar faces such as Tonya Bolden and met then-new ones the likes of authors Jill Nelson, Debrena Jackson Gandy, Eric Copage, Hilda Hutcherson, Dwain Birch, Al Collins, Solomon Jones and Denise Patrick.
“We are meeting outside by the lake. Please, come and join us,” came the final call.
I debated with myself for another second before I found myself asking: How could I possibly deny God His Glory? How could I leave Camp Mariah and not thank Him for the huge blessings he had given me that weekend?
I couldn’t.
So, I went. I gathered up my bulky laptop bag and headed out, trudging through the soft, muddy grass toward the lake shore. I wiped duck droppings off of the worn, wooden picnic table seat and sat. Gazing around, I saw a handful of people.
No matter, I thought. The handful of us had gathered and our willingness to do so was kindly in His sight.
By the time the service was halfway through, the numbers had swelled tremendously. We were all out there. We were all giving thanks, giving praise, with our hearts, our mouths, our tears and our spirits.
I looked out and saw Dr. Gwen Parker Ames, standing at a rise in the circle. She had worked hard to bring the retreat to fruition and despite her weariness, within her was an affirmation that her great effort had paid off.
I scanned other faces and felt their wonderment. Understood it because I was feeling the same thing too. We were in the middle of something special. We were in the middle of something so much bigger than our individual selves. We did not anticipate it, but we felt blessed to be of it. We did not expect it, but we opened our hearts to it.
The cloudy morning sky brightened. A shaft of sunlight spilled from the heavens. Bumblebees appeared out of nowhere. Butterflies flitted in our midst. Flowers shook softly in the breeze. Sunlight dappled off dewy green leaves. We felt the moment. We felt the power. We knew God was in our midst.
A woman musician, whose hard-won struggles could be seen clearly on her face, shared her story. She told us of her darkest hour and her brightest day. She praised God for delivering her and then treated us to a song of praise. Her voice was raw but there was no doubting the power. Later still, her saxophone solo gave us goose bumps.
We had come to Fishkill, New York, to Camp Mariah high up on the mountain to share our time as writers, readers and would-be writers. We left with something more. Something greater. Something special. Something rare.
We left with something needed. Something desired. Something overwhelming and truthful. We left with our spirits renewed, made whole, perfect and wondrous.
On a damp, gray Sunday Morning on a mountaintop in Fishkill, New York, the call had come and we had answered. Gathering together, we became one.
Before I even boarded the plane, the event started off special. I ran into Author Evelyn Coleman, who’d claimed me as her literary daughter two year’s prior, when before heading my plane, I made a stop to restroom. Seeing her again was pure joy. When we got to the boarding gate, there was Angela Reid of the Imani Book Club; the purple of her shirt signaling her presence and reminding me of the wonderful book club meeting her group had hosted for me a while back.
Right before we boarded, Author R.M. Johnson appeared. Though I had never met him, I had glanced enough of his books to know the face. Recognizing Angela, he quickly joined the group. There we were, the four of us—three authors and one book club member—bonding before we even arrived. With liveliness, we talked about the fate of black fiction, where we, as writers, were headed and where we needed to go as we waiting to board.
The Retreat was a delight. Before long, it was Sunday Morning and we’d gathered for departure in the cavernous dining hall. Busy, occupied and full of a hearty breakfast, traveling back home was on our minds.
Then a voice, soft and ethereal, gently asked: “Will you come?”
Bags had been packed. E-mail addresses and business cards exchanged and too many hugs to count had been given. Behind us were the workshops that we walked to between raindrops, authorspeak moments and Open-Mike night.
We had come together as a powerhouse of womanhood, the Written Word and a few male authors sprinkled in. We’d welcomed each other, hearts opened, reveling in the gifts we so willingly shared. But Sunday Morning was here, and all of us were readying to go back to our nine-to-fives, laundry, husbands, children—that place we called home.
“Will you join us?” came the words, drifting through the maze of wearied but peaceful chatter that rose up as goodbyes drew us in clumps; smiles and camera flashes lighting up the dining hall like tiny nova’s.
“Will you?’ came the voice again, non-church going folks like me in heavy debate of, will I? It had been announced that a “Sunday Service" would be held outside and all were invited to participate. At the time I didn’t see myself going (still living in the ‘don’t go to church’ world.) After hearing the request, I wasn't sure.
Would I do what I normally didn’t do--attend a fellowship service on a Sunday morning when my soul was already filled? The weekend had recharged me, energized me. The fellowship had already happened and I was complete.
I looked out onto the gray morning beyond the arched panes of glass and timber. Searched for the face behind the voice that asked so patiently and lovingly to come and give thanks to God. Saw a warm-brown, dread-headed sister issuing the call. Later I would come to know her as Zoleka Adams, an ordained Baptist Minister. But in that moment, she was a bell, tolling softly, calling us to gather. “Come join us and give the Creator the glory,” she offered as my mind flitted back into the weekend.
So many people who impacted my life were there. So many people who helped me in my journey to become an author had participated. There was Grace Edwards (may she rest in peace,) author of the Mali Anderson series, who gave me a blurb when I was a ‘newbie’ in the author world. Author Evelyn Palfrey, whose novels are legendary for both humor and truth, kept things lively during the weekend with her real-life stories. Author Donna Hill, who had hosted my fabulous ‘welcome home’ book-signing event at the Queens Public Library where I worked as a teenager and dreamed of becoming an author, was there. Author Francis Ray (may she rest in peace,) another invitee, was as sweet and humble as ever.
Virginia Deberry and Donna Grant—authors whose writing style is so ‘one-voiced,’ the first time I met them, I couldn’t stop asking how they did it, were there. I had sat on a panel with Author Bernice McFadden—her arrival to the session sending me into a five-minute crying spell because I felt so honor to meet her and sit next to her.
I’d got the chance to meet Author Nathasha Brooks, someone I hadn’t met but had conversed with through e-mail when she got the wonderful idea to help a troubled education system in Alabama by having fellow authors donate school supplies. Gregory Morris, Author of Zon, who’d appeared at another book functions I attended was there with his lovely, supporting wife, treating us to a wonderful spiritual duet.
I met Author Marcus Major for the first time, face-to-face. Before then we’d chatted on the phone and exchanged e-mails. He had been kind enough to send my niece an autograph copy of his book at my request and it was great to finally meet him.
Toni Staton Harris, another author I had previously met, gave me an autograph copy of her book and before I could thank her, disappeared out the room.
Jeanette Wallington, a book reviewer I’d become friendly with was there. Whenever she visited her family in Georgia we’d try and get together. And, the evening before our departure, Pam of Imani Book Club received a fabulous makeover, where she modeled her new look to applauds and whistles.
“Will you come with us?” the voice asked again. The need to do so wasn’t immediate. The whole weekend had been spiritual. The whole weekend had been uplifting. Was attending a service even necessary?
I had had my ‘fellowshipped’ with familiar faces such as Tonya Bolden and met then-new ones the likes of authors Jill Nelson, Debrena Jackson Gandy, Eric Copage, Hilda Hutcherson, Dwain Birch, Al Collins, Solomon Jones and Denise Patrick.
“We are meeting outside by the lake. Please, come and join us,” came the final call.
I debated with myself for another second before I found myself asking: How could I possibly deny God His Glory? How could I leave Camp Mariah and not thank Him for the huge blessings he had given me that weekend?
I couldn’t.
So, I went. I gathered up my bulky laptop bag and headed out, trudging through the soft, muddy grass toward the lake shore. I wiped duck droppings off of the worn, wooden picnic table seat and sat. Gazing around, I saw a handful of people.
No matter, I thought. The handful of us had gathered and our willingness to do so was kindly in His sight.
By the time the service was halfway through, the numbers had swelled tremendously. We were all out there. We were all giving thanks, giving praise, with our hearts, our mouths, our tears and our spirits.
I looked out and saw Dr. Gwen Parker Ames, standing at a rise in the circle. She had worked hard to bring the retreat to fruition and despite her weariness, within her was an affirmation that her great effort had paid off.
I scanned other faces and felt their wonderment. Understood it because I was feeling the same thing too. We were in the middle of something special. We were in the middle of something so much bigger than our individual selves. We did not anticipate it, but we felt blessed to be of it. We did not expect it, but we opened our hearts to it.
The cloudy morning sky brightened. A shaft of sunlight spilled from the heavens. Bumblebees appeared out of nowhere. Butterflies flitted in our midst. Flowers shook softly in the breeze. Sunlight dappled off dewy green leaves. We felt the moment. We felt the power. We knew God was in our midst.
A woman musician, whose hard-won struggles could be seen clearly on her face, shared her story. She told us of her darkest hour and her brightest day. She praised God for delivering her and then treated us to a song of praise. Her voice was raw but there was no doubting the power. Later still, her saxophone solo gave us goose bumps.
We had come to Fishkill, New York, to Camp Mariah high up on the mountain to share our time as writers, readers and would-be writers. We left with something more. Something greater. Something special. Something rare.
We left with something needed. Something desired. Something overwhelming and truthful. We left with our spirits renewed, made whole, perfect and wondrous.
On a damp, gray Sunday Morning on a mountaintop in Fishkill, New York, the call had come and we had answered. Gathering together, we became one.
Liked Margaret blog post? Email her at [email protected] and share your thoughts.