Friday nights and Saturdays are becoming difficult for me: I'm so sad with missing my children. On Saturdays I have been trying to not smoke, then consequently overeating, and then smoking afterwards.
The missingness just feels so vast.
Today I facilitated a journal workshop for the first time. Armed with a copy of Kathleen Adams' Journal to the Self, which I hadn't read, and a few blank marble notebooks, I set up shop in the glass cupola house. I expected about 6 participants. Two showed up.
The two guys (men!) did exactly what I asked. They listened when I spoke. And then they wrote like fiends. It was amzing to see.
I wasn't planning on writing while facilitating but with just the 3 of us, what else could I do? I wrote, "They're doing what I ask! Oh my god! They think I know what I'm doing...Maybe I DO know what I'm doing. Maybe I DO have something to offer...I love to write & I love words. Why do I deny myself? I also love to smoke. And run. So maybe I'm not the best most traditional Momma. But there is so much that is good about me."
And bang, just like that, I remembered who and what I am.