Transition Writing

Five minutes into the writing class, the teacher announced an assignment: transition writing. My brain froze. Several thoughts surfaced, blinked and glared like hazard lights during a driving rainstorm. I considered only these notions until the teacher broke the spell. 

As a woman who’s borne four children, for me transition meant the point in labor when pushing was about to begin.  The instructor couldn’t have meant writing about that!  There were students in the room who didn’t appear old enough to know what that kind of transition looked like, who didn’t wear the right worry lines, the ones that come from late night feedings, or from watch scowling because of blown curfews, or from expecting college admittance letters, and then fretting about how to finance that reach school.   I peeked at my classmates.  Three of the eight faces stared at our teacher as if she was a deer contemplating a leap across four lanes of traffic.  

By definition, transition means a process of change, a point when one thing ends and another begins.  It is the lull between preparing and consuming a nice dinner with your family before having to clear it all away. It is the point in a meditation when one sets aside a mantra and prepares to return to active life. It is the interlude between scolding a naughty kid and answering the doorbell to welcome in houseguests. In plain terms, transition is the dead zone between two stages, events or activities.

In the silence, which followed issuing the writing assignment, our teacher evaluated the eight faces before her. She must have seen our confusion or dread or surprise because she cleared her throat and clarified: Please write during a transition time, as in before sunrise or sunset, or before or after a rainstorm. Record your experience.   Heads nodded, pens scribbled, keyboards clacked. It sounded easy enough.

The day after class, I was up early, as is the norm for me. I was eager to try the transition writing.  With no rain in the weekly forecast, writing at sunrise or sunset were my only options. The sun began its peekaboo with the neighbor’s forsythia hedge, so I raced to the coffeemaker.  It was go time.  My usual writing practice involves grinding coffee beans at daybreak and trudging upstairs with a brimming cup where I settle in front of my laptop for a few hours.  I didn’t believe this scenario was what the teacher had in mind for the assignment. So, coffee mug in hand, a notebook wedged under an elbow and still in my PJs, I opened the porch door to write outdoors during transition.  

I swatted away a fresh crop of cobwebs and righted the cushion on a black wicker rocker. I sat. I sipped. I contemplated. I opened the notebook, a gift from my daughter. My pen hovered on the lined page. I wrote the date and: Class Exercise- Transition Writing. Nothing else. I put the pen down.  I always write early in the morning, always in my pajamas, and always with a cup a coffee. Yet, the words would not flow.  I closed the notebook and scrunched down into the striped chair cushion.  I watched the sun crest over the neighbor’s hedge and I listened. 

I swirled the French vanilla creamer in the very, bold roast cup of Joe; I listened.  I sipped and listened. I racked my brain for something to write about, but not one fresh idea came.  It was noisy on this side of the air conditioning. I couldn’t coax my mind away from all the conflicting sounds. It was garbage pickup day. Swarms of big, black, pesky crows circled and screeched as they fought over air rights to the blue garbage bins. They reminded me of the city homeless who laid claim to certain corners by rattling coin-filled Dunkin Donut cups.  

Deer were in the hedge across the street. Fawns called to their doe mothers in squeals, which were a cross between a dog bark and a high-pitched baby’s cry. The tone of their language alarmed me. Squirrels chattered and clucked in treetop nests crafted from last fall’s oak leaves.  I wondered if they were arguing with a mate as to whose turn it was to fetch the morning meal.  I spent so much time filtering out nature’s cacophony that my pen laid idle on my lap. My first attempt at writing during a transition time was a total bust.  

I grabbed my mug and notebook, clattered my way into the house, hit the coffeepot and headed up to my silent writing space.  I hoped writing at sunset would be less chaotic, more fruitful. If it didn’t pan out, I could always pray for rain. 

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