Two days after Thanksgiving, and I'm still sated. Not from a big turkey dinner (although I had plenty of turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, ribs, green bean casserole, cranberry relish, and pie at our extended family gathering.)

No, I'm feeling the afterglow of gratitude and peace from spending several hours, the day after Thanksgiving, in a creative writing group. Twenty people showed up, all strangers to me except for the organizer, coming together to write and read aloud, in a living room of encouragement and play. 

I had come because life had gotten dry. Starting up a new business, and using my left-brained engineering mind day in and day out, had taken its toll. I arrived, literally parched, having forgotten a water bottle. Still, I was happy to devote the next few hours to listening–to myself and what my soul wanted to write about, and to others and the stories that needed to be heard that day. Photo by _ltwp

The organizer, Tama, is a gifted writer and one whose appeal is the very fact that she is so honest about her own insecurities. She gives us all permission to be "not good," even horribly bad. Tama gets it that our inner selves are fragile. Only in an environment of non-judgment and gracious loving will our authentic voice thrive. Tama is the woman to create that space. She exudes love and understanding and most importantly, camaraderie. She is one of us. 

The format looks like this:

You arrive at Tama's modest house, a humble bungalow, where color and style make up for grand entrances and expansive windows.

Find a chair or a pillow to sit on and join the circle in the front room, which serves as a gathering place for whoever shows up. It is what you think of as a writer's house, with interesting things on the wall that have a metaphorical meaning, well-worn hardwood floors, and incense and candles adding to the atmosphere. The furniture is mismatched and comfortable. You don't worry about putting your feet up on the couch. 

Introductions consist of saying your first name and one thing about yourself. I immediately think of an AA meeting I went to with a friend. The anonymity of a first name allows for vulnerability and washes away any distinction, privilege or burden that our daily identities convey. There is no passing. Luckily, if what you have to say is "I have nothing to say because at the moment, nothing is coming to me," that's good enough. Photo by Grzegorz Łobiński

As we go around the room, each person adds pieces of their own story to the milieu. By the end, the room is bubbling with a rich stew of individuals from all walks of life (an attorney, a dentist, an emergency medical worker, a massage therapist, a data base administrator) who are there for the same reason–to feed their soul with the food of life. We are there to set free our creative spirit through the medium of writing. And to listen, deeply, to what's inside.  

We get our first prompt, which launches us into 15 minutes of uninterrupted writing. Also known as "free writing," this is the technique suggested by Natalie Goldberg in her classic book, Writing Down the Bones. The idea is to keep the pen moving (or the fingers typing) no matter what, even if what you write is "I don't know what to write." Eventually, your self-consciousness and judging mind will give way to what you really want to express. Photo by ~Twon~

For me, all I need is the flash of an image or a word or a memory to start. Then I follow the breadcrumb, from one thought to the next. It is a form of meditation, reflection, and insight converging into one process, enveloped in emotions that are triggered by the topic. Hopefully, I don't stumble upon a topic that leaves me weeping inside and out, among people I've met for the first time. Those topics are reserved for the privacy of my home office, in the middle of the night, when I can't sleep and my unconscious is grieving for something buried deep inside of me, sometimes for decades. Luckily, nothing like that comes up with this first prompt.

After Tama calls for us to finish up our writing, it's time to read what we've scribed, channeled, or painfully crafted. It's time to hear what's been inside of us. The words always amaze me. Was that what I was thinking? Is that how it felt? Did I come away with that insight?  Each piece of writing has a distinctive arc and rhythm to it, with the author's own style embellishing the raw word. Some are analytical in their descriptions. Others are casual in tone, as if gossiping with an old friend. Still others have the presence of a serious actor and the voice of a seasoned narrator. Some individuals are shy and quiet, letting their words speak powerfully, doled out like precious gems. All have something to say about the human experience. Photo by Bien Stephenson

These are not all accomplished writers. I find some pieces to be too self-absorbed or skimming the surface. Or the author prefaces the reading with too much of an introduction, as if to say, "Please excuse what you are about to hear."  I'm not as generous as Tama. This is what is so striking about Tama. She finds something good about everyone's piece and lets the rest fall away.  She loves every effort, no matter what the final package looks like. It is refreshing and inspiring.

We go through a second prompt and a reading of each piece. By now, we are into our third hour in a session that was only meant to last a little over two hours. Only one person excuses himself to leave. We are mesmerized by each others' stories and the collection of emotions and visuals and wisdom that come with each one. Like a good meal, we savor each bite. We end, well-fed, on many levels.

I have written about jumping off sandstone spires and the backyard of my childhood. I have expressed relief and gratitude and wonderment. I have felt the play of words and the flow of writing, when it comes through me, not from me. This, I cannot get from my everyday routine. It is a luscious moment, when your heart is wide open to whatever you know in the present, about your past or future. I have been brought into a trance-like state that moves to the beat of intuition, that trusts more than fears, that does an end run of my utilitarian censor. Photo by snowpeak.

The rest of the day, I am at peace. For the first time in many months, I don't feel compelled to do anything but enjoy myself, to nurture the smallest of desires. I see the gift in stopped traffic on the highway and waiting my turn in line and running into an old colleague at a crowded mall. I'm appreciative of free filtered water and a microwaved burrito and the first two sections of the local paper while I sit and eat.  I arrive home seven hours later, not with jangled nerves, but with my innards settled down and surprisingly, with as much energy as when I left. The day has not been flawless, but it has been perfect. In more ways than I can express, I am home.