Time to Write

Tomorrow I say good-bye to the seniors of Flushing House Senior Residence. I felt it a month ago; time to move on. And as much as I tried to gather up more memoir workshops, to tell you the gosh awful truth, I am thankful it didn't work out. Just the long commute to Flushing, Queens was a lot. But still I loved seeing the seniors. But something inside me is telling me to consolidate, work smart, and to conserve my energy. My older daughter nailed it when she flat out asked me to consider my craft as a writer - to do that - to see what would happen if I set my eyes on that prize, instead of running all over?

I heard the universe and I accepted.

I've grown to a place where I want to listen to my own thoughts for a bit. I am richer because of the men and women who told me their stories. In fact, they encouraged me to write more, too. Once at a session, one of my writers who wrote magnificently, and who I praised and applauded, said a few times to me: And what about you? When do we get to read what you've written?

I heard the universe and accepted. I am healing, have been healed. No longer does the blank page frighten me. No longer do I worry what might come out. The rotting wound has been cleaned. The suffering ceased. A strength grown solid, bending like a reed. A child, I am grown.

Two of my best memoir writers who have since transitioned.
I deeply miss them.

 When we close our black notebooks, shelve them, put the
pens away, fold the chairs and lay them against the table,
I will remember your blue eyes, your stories, your words
that had me breathing when there was no air.

"When We Close"
April 4, 2012