Around the Oval Table

   

    It happened almost four years ago now, I said yes to attending a small writer's group, and why wouldn't I? I had started a blog (I was big time).

   It was a balmy summer evening when I pulled up to the beautiful home. The tall trees revealed the centennial age of the home and shaded its classic beauty from the setting sun. Walking up the sidewalk I almost danced up to the front porch.

  I knew Deane from my first writing class at House of Hope. The thought of her calmed my racing heart. It is largely because of her that I dare to write. She had shared her desire to step out upon the waters of writing in that previous class I treasured. As a result, she opened her home to continue that little writing space, that opportunity for dreams to fly off pencils.

   As I entered her home the warm color of wood welcomed my eyes as I followed Deane. The quiet shuffle of feet and chatter from the next room came to my ears with a curious beckoning. Around the oval table I met Brenda and got reunited with Rebecca, a fellow student from the House of Hope writing class. This was to be the beginning.

    Later that year others would join the group. Some would stay and others would go. It sounds much like any group shifting with time, but it had become much more to me. This small group of ladies helped my heart speak. At first when we had writing exercises the flow seemed easy. I can do this, I thought. But as I listened to the writings coming off everyone's pens I enjoyed their writing.  I began to love these women who allowed the group to peer into their thoughts and dreams. We shared something together there. Out of the abundance of the heart the pen speaks and sometimes it bleeds onto the page.

    A few months into the meetings I found out I was pregnant. This was a life changing event. I didn't want it to be. I hoped to be able to Adult my way through an expanding tummy and the intense mood swings. I learned quickly that the pen will not lie. I am indebted to the ladies who sat through my bucket of tears. Why am I crying again? It is humbling to realize to give yourself permission to write is to become vulnerable, to become seen as you really are.

   Later when I lost my job we sold our house. We started a new life with a tiny baby, 3 older kids, and a naughty dog, but it was here I found comfort. Surrounded by the warm color of wood, in a chair around the oval shaped table words, lyrics, and delicious desserts put me back together again.

   After the blog posts ended and my mind was numb with sleepless nights and grief these ladies made me smile as we savored a poem together. As we read each other's works. When I wondered if there was anything left of me they reminded me...the pen does not lie. And there on tear stained paper I found my voice. It was quivering, unsure, and weak but it stood up on ink and notebook paper.

    They saw it, around the oval shaped table. They said, "it is good." That's when it happened...

For a second time, I believed...I am a writer.