100 Stars: Stories We Lift to the Light

The hotel had a rooftop pool. There were no lights on out on the deck, so I thought for a minute maybe it was closed. Being the only person out there was at first a little daunting, but I quickly realized the solitude was a gift. Slowly submersing in the warm water, my vision and my body shifted. My breathing steadied. My mind rested. The moon and a cluster of stars above, illuminating the mountains that suddenly felt so close. I couldn’t have designed a better setting if I scripted it myself.

Two years ago, I flew to Santa Fe, New Mexico for A Writing Room Retreat. My bag filled with more notebooks and pens than clothes. My heart packed with hopes and dreams, and a few worries and big ideas in the side pocket. I was ready to take my writing life seriously. Whatever happened, I knew it would be life changing. I trusted I would return different than I had left.

Writing retreats are inspiring and motivating and can also be a hot bed of insecurities and imposter syndrome symptoms. By the end of the first day, I knew I needed to cool those doubts off, if I was going to fully soak in the experience, wisdom, and creativity all around me. This is what led me to the rooftop.

Alone in the water, floating on my back, beneath a southwest sky, the world looked brighter than I had ever seen before. It was as if each star was calling my name. Inviting me to get curious about theirs. The mountains did what mountains always do. Calmed me and filled me with wonder and awe.

Earlier that evening in one of the opening sessions, Anne Lamott shared a quote by E. L. Doctorow who once said, “writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

The stars that night were headlights. Revealing what was right there in front of me and had been waiting to be acknowledged.

Rooftop pool on my last morning.

I’ve been writing ever since I could hold a pencil. But only recently have I started identifying as a writer. I’ve been penning poems since elementary school. But showing up as a poet is new. I’ve been telling stories since I learned to talk. But only in the last year have I truly claimed my calling as a storyteller.

I held back from naming and embracing who I am because my focus was too far ahead. Believing I had to fully arrive before I could make such claims. I had to finish the journey before I could introduce myself as a traveler. I had to publish a book before I could call myself an author. I had to be invited to speak on a famous stage before I could promote myself as a speaker. The next step always mattered more than the current one.

Eventually I stopped floating in the pool and swam over to the edge. My folded arms held my head like a pillow as my body dangled in the water. For the first time, in a very long time, I was completely present in the moment. Totally attuned to what was before me. The night sky. Stars. Mountains. Crisp cool air. Opportunity. Possibility. Peace. Love. Life.

The retreat was full of attendees who came with similar, yet unique goals and aspirations. I had lively conversations with so many people about what they were writing and hoping to write. Some had very specific projects. Others, outlines and pages of doodles like me. Some were published. Others had never shared any of their words with another living soul.

In the pool, I came to understand why I was there. I wasn’t there to pitch or complete a particular manuscript. I wasn’t there to figure out what kind of writer I was or wanted to be. My motive for attending was simpler and more profound. I was ready to stop the car, stand in the glow of the headlights, name what was right there, and embrace it.

I am Rebecca. A writer. A poet. A storyteller. Queer. Curious. Transformational. These words are on the name tag I keep as a creative I.D. These are the words I spoke boldly into a microphone before a crowd of mostly strangers.

In one of the final sessions, we were invited to commit to doing one new thing with our writing. I had heard several people, presenters and participants, talk about Substack. I engaged in some discussions about it and how it worked. How user-friendly it was or wasn’t. I checked out newsletters and read some reviews of the platform. And decided this was the one new thing I was committing to…I was going to launch my Substack, Wednesdays at the Well, the first week of October.

It was challenging not to look ahead, not to anticipate hiccups and problems. What if no one reads or subscribes? What if people read and hate my work? What if I get negative comments? What if I run out of things to write about? How can I ever ask people to pay for my words?

But every time my fears hit the gas, I remembered that night in the pool and tapped the brake. When anxiety accelerated my heart beat, I closed my eyes and imagined being back under the stars and grounded near the mountains.

Living most of my life in Michigan, which is really quite flat, I am so fascinated by mountains. When I’m near them I want to be closer. My fascination is—I’m sure—also related to lessons the church taught me about mountains. In subtle and direct ways, I was taught that mountains are sacred places, reserved for a select few. That mountain top experiences are blessings to be earned. A privilege to enjoy for a season, not a permanent place of existence. Be careful, they said, the higher you climb the farther you’ll fall. I stopped chasing stars for the fear that I might actually reach them.

These weekly reflections on the things that cause and quench our thirst have been part of my healing and letting go of the limiting beliefs I was taught about who I am, who god is, and what I am called to offer the world with this one wild and precious life I have. I know how it feels to be parched and to find hydration for your spirit. I write about what I know and how I know it.

Water-full Indigenous Art in Santa Fe.

On October 4, 2023, I hit send on the very first edition of Wednesdays at the Well. In Yes, Life Happens, I wrote about claiming the right we have to tell our stories.

And today, not quite two years later, I share these words, as the 100^th edition of Wednesdays at the Well. For 100 weeks, I have joyfully kept this commitment to myself and to my writing and to you. I absolutely love this little water-filled corner of the internet where we come together each week. I am so grateful you are part of this community.

I have no idea how many stars were in the sky that night brightening the mountains. The poet in me wants to believe there were 100. 100 bright luminaries singing my name, glowing like a welcome sign on the neighborhood water well, lifting me and you and all our stories to a light beyond description.

If I ever meet Anne Lamott again, I’ll say, “Being alive is like floating in a rooftop pool at midnight. You can see only as far as the stars will guide, but you can map out a beautiful life that way.”

What commitment will you make to yourself and living your dreams, to getting out of the car or the pool and focusing on what’s before you? What one new thing are you willing to try?

With abundant light and gratitude,

Rebecca & 10CAMELS

P.S. I didn’t forget about sharing details of my second book. Watch the video for the title and release date. And make sure you’re subscribed for all the latest info and updates from behind the scenes.