Writing Group is often hectic. We have, on average, 14-16 writers every Wednesday. Many of us only see one another this one hour per week. We use the time to catch up on the progress of the cancer treatments. Whether the child-custody hearings were held. How the visit with the grandbabies went. The latest on the wait for housing. What, if anything is new on the Writing Group’s book. Oh—and we also write.
It’s easy, in this swirl of activity, for important things to fly right over my head. When I first began with writing group, I kept a journal. When I got home from group, I’d write down everything I could remember that happened while we were together. So very often, a crucial request or a key piece of information about someone’s life popped back into my head, until then totally forgotten.
Over the years, I’ve become more accustomed to the flurry of activity, and I no longer need the journal (I hope!) I’ve learned to pay better attention when someone is talking to me. To focus and really listen. Absorb what they are saying. When I look back on these moments, they feel like prayer.
Of course, things still get lost. Today, the lost thing was found. Between the writer who had the need, another writer who had a notecard, and me who had a stamp, we sent a note to her son. A written note with an envelope that was addressed. This accomplishment filled her with joy. Her joy filled me with joy. That she’d been waiting all week to finish this task fills me with shame. Shame at what I think is important. Shame at what I demand out of life before I call it valued. Shame at the hurrying through of important moments as if they were the same as every other minute of the day. They are not. They are the presence of God in our world. Stop. Listen. You want to know about the sound of Advent? It’s in the silence of joy.
here’s to creative synthesis . . .