It’s November, the month when many writers write.
I’m not working on the next book, not writing my blog, not even journal-ing every day.
In typical Cynthia fashion, I had a good stretch of days some weeks ago and was so thankful for it, I tried to do too much.
Ignored the warning signs. Committed other rampant acts of mindless-ness.
The bad pain came, then the flu. And throughout it all, the bloody nightmares whenever I slept long enough.
But pushing myself, as my therapist and journals remind me, is how I’ve come this far.
And I’m pushing again.
Twice a week now, I lead very small groups of individuals who are writing their memoirs.
None is a professional or even an experienced writer. But they are bright, interesting, mature people.
Some of their stories are painful to write, I know. But what a joy for me to help them develop as writers.
They’re changing in front of my eyes — and theirs. Blooming.
At first, I wondered how they’d see me.
It’s obvious I have difficulty walking – sometimes it’s very bad. But I decided to reveal — on the very first day — some of the stuff others don’t immediately see. That I sometimes stutter or speak strangely. That I might struggle to cross-reference or absorb new information and that if voices/sounds come at me from more than one source, it affects me.
Just as well I did.
I’ve come up against my limits repeatedly – and so markedly, twice, that I later went to the washroom and cried.
Then there’s the tiny paycheque. I earned more money in my early 20’s!
So why am I smiling?
This activity has given me a purpose outside the home. I spend 2 hours, twice a week, with a group of individuals whom I like, respect and marvel at. I can see their progress each week and it delights me. The stories they tell — even the painful ones –are a balm to my soul.
Blessed am I to have such students.
And blessed am I to have readers who notice when my blogging patterns are ‘off’, and ask why.