Sunday, September 13, 2015

This Chair, My Fingers, Here, Again

I am drinking coffee at my favorite coffeehouse. It is cool out, the sky is overcast and the blanket of Tacoma drizzle has encased us. I am writing. I am drinking coffee. I stop to listen to a group of men who meet every Sunday; they share of their lives, their pressures, their dreams.  This morning I took my writing coach and therapist for their daily walk. I ate oatmeal and fruit.

And I am writing, slugging it out. I am starting with some narrative nonfiction that may morph into an autoethnography. I have the privilege of academic status; I can write what I want. Damn, I am so very, very lucky.

In other words, dear reader, I am feeling solid, grounded, rooted. A few of you wrote to me asking how I was doing; given that my divorce was finalized only two days go.

This morning I woke up at 5am and called an old, dear friend on the east coast. She is one of those friends that just creates the space to be real with; I have to be myself with her, and she with me. It felt good to cry with her as a witness, have my soul touched, and remember that love comes in many, many forms.

I am here, in this chair, writing. I have been in this chair, or another chair, writing, for many many years. It is where I go to when all else fails, when I have failed (or feel like I have failed).

It is where I go build dreams, and now, to reconsider dreams, explore new ones, try them on for size, and ultimately, commit to knew ones. I am almost, almost excited for my new journey.

I am here, slugging it out today. I am here with a heavy heart, with tears welling like the Tacoma sky. I am here in heartache, in joy, in triumph, in despair, in euphoria, in triumph, in tragedy. I am here. My fingers move. I feel them. I close my eyes. I am close. I am so close. I am here.

Join me.

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