She was an automaton, cynical, on autopilot. She vetoed the journey of enlightenment and self-awareness. Why bother? But wait. Maybe if there were others to help . . . a community of kindred spirits.
Writing is transformative. Writing heals. Writing breaks the silence. As we light the candle and open the Circle, we feel alchemy. Something magical is about to happen.
This morning at Wellington Square we read to each other the history of our writing lives. "Writing is a mirror in which I meet myself," Ginger wrote.
"There is a lightness of spirit when I write," Pat wrote. "I explore my imagination."
We are finding our voice.
Here's the rub. The outside world - worse, our family - would have us stay silent. You are too outspoken for a girl! The world doesn't need another book, a husband says. Why are you writing, a daughter demands? What could you possibly have to to say, a son asks?
Writing is a ribbon of light weaving through murky water. It is a saunter on a warm summer day. It is a trek up a mountainside. It is as necessary as the air we breathe.
As Trish said today, "I have a right to write."