The Journey Inward

They arrive,
singly or in pairs,
with hugs and baked goods,
shedding outerwear and
congregating in my kitchen,
catching up, enjoying snacks,
choosing their tea,
always the tea.

Eventually this tribe of writers
moves to the couches,
tucked in hip to hip,
shoulder to shoulder,
around the coffee table,
before the fire,
beginning the night by shedding
the burdens of the day or week,
relieving the mind of what is pressing,
and opening up space.

The sharing is next,
and there is laughter, tears,
nods, mm-hmms,
advice,
for we all get it,
we've all been there,
or felt that;
no share is unfamiliar 
to this group of middle aged women.

There is acceptance and affirmation,
perspective.
We are allowed to cry
without being comforted,
not being rushed through the pain.
We sit with one another's experience,
validating it.
We are a group of writers,
but we are so much more.

Photo:  my dresser. 8.16.24 by LA