Real Words in Made Up Places: Episode 5 - Eldonna Edwards

After recovering from the busy schedule known as Life Today, I welcome today’s experience with open arms and an open mind. Our guest for today’s episode of Real Words in Made Up places, is Eldonna Edwards. An author to two of the greatest short novels of our time – Clover Blue and This I Know – and her memoir Lost in Transplantation, which “chronicles a life-changing decision” of a kidney patient and one potential donor.

Like many of my interviews, the setting suits the interviewee.

“Have you ever sweated it out?”

Surprising Eldonna, I say, “Yeah, twice.”

“Would you join me at Dancing Deer?”

“I’d love to.”

Most of my life, spirituality of any kind was wrapped up in the “for entertainment purposes only” horoscopes that caught my eye in the back of a magazine. “Those people” were just a bunch of hippies who smoked too much pot and smelled of incense. It wasn’t until I had my own experiences and personally chose to know something different, that my sense of being changed.

Driving to Dancing Deer is a nice excursion away from the busy-ness of everyday life. It’s local, but it feels so far away. The sense of relief and calmness hits me quickly as I get out of my car and walk up to the sweat lodge. Eldonna is already there in a “sweat dress” due to our co-ed experience. Usually, Ms. Edwards is fine with being au naturel; this interviewer is still a little on the modest side. Most sweat lodges are either men or women due to the necessity of stripping down to the bare bones for the extreme heat held within.

Before we enter the grounded ceremony of the sweat lodge, we clasp our hands in Namaste and give one another a short bow. Brother Crow, a Native American friend of Eldonna, helps facilitate the sweat by adding in the heated rocks as our experience begins.

Inside the three-foot-tall clearance of the shelter, darkness helps my mind calm down to a quiet that I haven’t felt in years. Eldonna offers me a cup of tea. I sip gently, make a face at the bitterness, but feel gratitude just the same.

A few minutes pass, and with my eyes closed and my mind clear, I start hearing the pounding of a frame drum off in the distance. I open my eyes a little, feeling a little uncomfortable with the heat of the rocks, and a hand grabs my arm and leads me outside.

“I have waited so long to speak with you, Bruce.”

Outside, my eyes try to grasp my new reality. A lone figure, slightly taller than myself, stands before me. Shoulder-length black hair, dark green eyes reflecting the gentle soul found within, and the bare feet of a wild stallion remind me that it was no ordinary tea.

“Hua sent me to you today to remind you that I’m always watching over you.” We clasp each other’s forearms in deep brotherhood. “My name is Irmão. I am your guardian.”

We stroll through the vibrant emerald grass, as high as my kneecaps. With a faint dew along the top, we pass by a cherry blossom tree shedding its leaves. A black crow lands on my shoulder and I’m shocked by my own calmness at the solidarity of this creature that I only called noisy before.

Irmão and I stop by a lake that I remember primarily from my youth. Atascadero, my hometown, has a lake next to their zoo where all the townspeople visit for birthdays and celebrations.

“When I started reading Eldonna Edwards novel,” I said to Irmão, “there was a connection I felt right away with her. My childhood was bathed in sadness from being lonely all of the time. Father issues became family issues. This lake was my time of fun amid the despair.” Irmão and I stopped at the swing sets. As we started swinging higher and higher, we both jumped and, naturally, started to fly.

Flying over trailers and apartment complexes and houses, I realize we were flying over all of the places I lived as a child. Moments became minutes, sped up to days that became years, and Irmão takes my hand again to the hospital room where my son was born.

“Through all of the grief of your youth,” Irmão whispers, as my son arrives, “this is the moment you were always waiting for. To become a father. To become a good father.”

“Bruce.” I hear the peaceful voice of Eldonna. “Hey, Bruce.” A gentle shaking and I open my eyes to another blast of heat from the dozen rocks near me. Brother Crow opens the flap for Eldonna and I follow after, taking in the crisp cold breeze. It’s a little draftier than I remember. I look down and gather myself.

“It was hotter than you thought after all,” Eldonna laughs, handing me my shorts that I must have unknowingly stripped off earlier. Blushing a beet red as I always do, I quickly put on my shorts.

“Did you enjoy your outing?” she asks. “Were you visited?”

“Yes. Irmão was his name.”

“I’m so glad you got to finally meet your own guardian. I wish more people would be open to knowing theirs. Before this beautiful day ends, shall we begin with your questions?”

What happened when you were young that told you that you had to write?

I fell in love with language from as far back as I can remember. Thanks to older siblings who liked to play "school" with my younger sister and me, I learned to read at an early age. I devoured fifth-grade books while my fellow kindergartners were still learning their ABC's. I loved spelling bees and used to geek out at diagramming sentences on the chalkboard. One day I wrote a poem for my mother who was ill. I don't remember the poem, but I remember her response to it and in that moment, realized the power of stringing words together. 

Which authors were your greatest inspiration?

I'm a huge fan of Jodi Picoult, Elizabeth Berg and Barbara Kingsolver. I would say my books tend to be most like Berg's, character-driven stories with small-town settings filled with people most of us can relate to because we are them or we know them.

 If you could snap your fingers and have one of your work in progress/ideas be done – which would it be?

As a living donor myself, I’ve long wanted to collect stories from kidney donors and their recipients in an anthology. My working title is The Organ Trail. Haha

Where do you write?

I built a writing studio in my back yard last summer, furnished with a desk and a futon, however I often write at a table or on the sofa or sitting on my canopied swing outdoors. 

Why do you write?

I write for the simple satisfaction of spilling ideas and stories onto the page. As frustrating as it can sometimes be, there is no greater satisfaction than writing "The End" after working for months/years on a book.

Why should someone come to a writers conference?

There are so many great reasons to attend a writers conference but first and foremost to improve your craft. Beyond that, conferences are a great way to network with other writers when so much of what we do occurs in isolation.

Rejection comes for us all. What is/what was your way to cope with rejection? 

Honestly, I've never taken rejection very personally. Sure, it stings a bit but a "no" is an opportunity to consider whether your ms [main story] needs more work or you need to do more research on where best to submit.  Ultimately, it's always better to wait for that one editor/agent/publisher who "gets" you because enthusiasm for your work is priceless. 

“Thank you Eldonna. Thank you for your stories and for your characters. Thank you for sharing this peaceful experience with me.”