Nine years ago, in the summer before my retirement as a school nurse in March 2017, I decided my journey would be to an artist residency at Artcroft in Paris, Kentucky. I’d read about their community for artists of different genres. It was located about an hour east of Lexington on sixty-six acres of farmland. From the description of the program, artists would give back work on the farm and do community presentations in exchange for staying for free. The application was lengthy and required three letters of recommendation from people who knew your work.

I looked forward to being in a group of artists, hearing their stories of how they got into their mediums, what things gave them inspiration. I also felt intimidated sending in my application since I assumed I would have less experience, less skill than the others; the imposter syndrome almost kept me from applying. But two-weeks for free in a state I hadn’t visited, in a rural setting that was in horse country, was enough to help me move beyond my feelings of inadequacy.

On the day I drove into Paris, the director, Robert called me and explained he wouldn’t be able to be there when I arrived.

“I left the door open and you’re fine to settle in. You’re the only artist here during your two weeks so feel free to spread out.”

Oh, I thought. Not what I expected.

The gatehouse was at the entrance to the rolling hills of the Artcroft property. There was a living room and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs. The only air conditioner was a wall unit in the upstairs bathroom; what an odd placement for that cooling unit. Box fans were strategically placed to move the cool air through the house.

After unloading my car, I placed my books, computer, pens, and paper on the kitchen table that would be my writing work station. I was anxious to walk over the grounds and see the animals and garden that I was supposed to help with to pay my way.

The pasture next to the house was empty; the only cows I heard mooing were in the distance. The large barn that was up the hill from the gatehouse was empty except some paint cans and old canvases. There were no bails of hay or farm implements, no signs of active farming life. I didn’t spot a garden anywhere — those long rows of beans and corn that I’d known as a girl growing up on a farm.

I walked back to the gatehouse, with my first view of the incredible sunset over the hills and wondered, What is going on here? Have I made a huge mistake?

The next day, I met Robert. He was not only the director but the benefactor who’d had the dream of a place to nurture artists. He explained that they’d sold the cows and discontinued the garden. No civic groups had requested an artist presentation during the next two weeks.

“All you need to do is write,” he said, with his Burl Ives voice and warm, Santa Claus smile.

What was initially a disappointment came to be a huge gift. Being the only one kept me from the distractions of social interactions and the threat of comparison. So many times during my days in that quiet place, I was reminded of my week at Grandma Smith’s house in the summers during elementary school. What a simple life she led in her farmhouse. Getting back into that quiet energy helped me settle in at Artcroft.

Because of the quiet, I was able to hear the voice of my Muse. Eventually it was clear the mistake I’d made in the memoir I was working on; I hadn’t told the WHOLE truth, as Mary Karr advised in her book The Art of Memoir. I’d only told about having breast cancer but not about simultaneously being fired from a job; I had buried that shame. The quiet hours of writing and walking and reflecting in those Kentucky hills unearthed that painful reality of what had been omitted. Getting the entire story down was another step forward toward healing.

The day I left from my 14 days in that farmhouse, a couple was to move in — not to write but to set up a horse rescue operation. I’d learned that the artists’ residency was moving into town where Robert had shown me historical buildings he was restoring as the new location for Artcroft. I was the last artist to stay on that 66 acres of Kentucky countryside.

I drove away in amazement at how life doesn’t always give you what you expect; sometimes it surprises you and gives you what you need. It reminded me of one of my favorite verses from the Bible in Ephesians 3:20 how God gives us “exceedingly abundantly above all we ask or imagine.”

May it be so for you,

Connie