What to do on a cloudy, low-energy Thursday following a Wednesday filled with heady activities?
Yesterday, my neighbor, Rita, invited me for lunch, a fellow writer who also has a long-established animal sanctuary on her property. Her long-time friend, Marilyn, traveled fifteen miles to join us, despite the unending buckets of rainfall, and we enjoyed a delicious lunch with great conversation.
Later, at 7pm, the seven amazing life-writers in our writing circle at the library and I shared our last session, our sixth, of writing and sharing a series of our life stories. As I think of each woman today, I am profoundly moved by so much: their commitment, their incredible stories, their perceptive and tender support of each other, their bonding, and so much more. My first community writing group endeavor has evolved into all that I’d hoped it would become and more, when a group member last evening volunteered to take steps to lead them on as an independent community writing group that will keep meeting at the library. The joyful fatigue I feel today reminds me of the hours after each of my children were born; and I realize this has been another kind of birth.
So, with low creativity today, I ruled out working at the keyboard, except for writing this post. I read for awhile, then knitted on another hat for Carol’s Coats, a West Virginia church mission project established in memory of my friend, Carol Tyree. I knit the hat as if it were a prayer shawl, saying prayers with each stitch: of gratitude for my friendship with Carol and prayers for the child who will receive the hat next Christmas.
I remembered sharing lunch with two other friends last week, Lynn and Bobbie, and a fun day of shopping in Harrisonburg, especially in the fabric shop. I love fabric stores almost as much as libraries, and found just the right fabric to make a new pre-spring tablecloth. Filled with bright yellow lemons, it lay neatly folded by my machine, pre-shrunk, and ready to hem. I figured I had enough energy to make a hem and stitch it. And I did.