Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Nablopomo - Day 4

Sitting alone on a circular couch, facing a flameless gas fireplace.
The sun is slowly sinking behind the mountains, turning the vivid yellows and oranges into dull memories of their noontime beauty.

The door between the kitchen and this room is ajar. I can hear the others laughing, talking, cooking. Cocktail hour started at 4:30. Bottles of wine, both red and white, sit on the counter, next to the corks piling like rock cairns. I hear the dinner bell ringing.

I thought this retreat would make writing and posting every day easy.
Not so.
The distractions are not the same as at home, but distracting none the less.

Later ….

Everyone took today's writing assignment seriously. After dinner we gathered in a circle and read the stories we'd written today.  It's hard to describe how it feels to be a part of this group. To throw my story into the pot and feel like it holds its own. Earlier this afternoon I felt unsure of myself, needing some space and not knowing why.  All that anxiety left as we read one another's stories. I laughed and cried at the multi-layered abilities of women who thread words together like a fine tapestry.

Tomorrow our assignment is to play. I think a rousing game of peek-a-boo, a la Bella, sounds like the ticket.  I found it interesting that when we were told we "had" to play, most of us, complained. Play? What's that?

When was the last time you had permission to play?
Merry ME

1 comment:

MamaJoe said...

I think, sometimes, that my writing is play. And I agree that we don't play enough. Perhaps that is what would help us as adults...to connect to the inner child that wants to rest from work and play with out friends.
I cannot imagine you thinking your work would not hold its own among those you are with. Your talent and word weaving drew me in the first time I read it.