I always know when something out of the ordinary has occurred. Not out-of-the-ordinary like my kids decide to clean up their rooms without me going through my hair-standing-on-end rant. The kind of out-of-the-ordinary like a connection has been made that far transcends hi-how-are-you. When that kind of connection happens, I lay awake and look at the ceiling. No amount of pillow-punching cures it. I just have to wait it out.
Last night I sat around the table, graced with the company of twelve women who at six o'clock were strangers, and by eight o'clock were ---- something more. The common denominator was a love of books. Curiousity about how Four Ordinary Women came to be. These women wanted to know how it happened. How we got all our feelings and experiences on paper.
Well, one piece of writing at a time. And four years of broken pencil lead, pink eraser debris and balled up paper. Yup, nothing glamorous about that process.
Around that table was a therapist, a woman who'd just had knee replacement, a woman from England, a young mom of three and B, that mom's mentor, who was just so enthusiastic and spunky and likable and then a woman who'd written her life story for her family.
Twelve of us. Sharing a meal. Sharing ourselves. Tentative at first, but then as the dynamic came together, more risks were taken. And that, that is the beginning. We all have a story to tell. Our journeys are far more the same than they are different.
Sharpen your pencils.