Deep listening

Here is Sheri, in whose home our old writing group (in which I met Margie 11 years ago) reconvened today to hold each other dear, to listen whole-heartedly, and to speak a bit. Our group was twelve at its fullest, and given various comings and goings, I’d say we’ve embraced twenty-five or so different writers. Five of us are left, and of those only Margie and I were in the original constellation. One of us is about to move to another part of the continent, and each of us goes onward into the fog in our own way, forgetting the names of authors and titles we once knew as well as our own reflections. 

In most of the groups I frequent, I’m the eldest. In this group I’m the second-to-youngest. Impermanence is our old friend. Come, we say to Death, have a seat, have some bagels and lox and maybe a slice of banana bread with cream cheese. Will that be coffee or tea? Caffeine or not? We laugh at the miracle of survival and we wonder, when we part, if we will meet again. Each parting is its own completion.

The quality of Sheri’s attention in this photo expresses how deeply we receive each other, how much we respect each other, how important each of us is to the others. Now we are four. With gratitude, we say: thank you, I love you, goodbye again.