CIRCLE OF WRITERS

They gathered once a week to worship, forming a large circle with their chairs,saying it symbolized the  moon, the perfect mother of invention and  mystery. Sitting silently, preferring to feel each others words rather then  speak them. To sense them lingering on the finger tips of those who placed them onto pure white paper. White like the reflected light of the sun on a  moon during an Indian Summer when fire flies flash - sparks parting the curtain to the unseen for brilliant moments. It was good being together. Safe. We understood each other, spoke the same language. After all we were parents who knew the complexity of  birth. The conception of words out of air, to mind, to paper and back to air again as they are read aloud. Quietly honoring their sacredness. The high priestess wore a magnificent headdress of fiction and a translucent love sonnet as a robe. As the service concluded she sprinkled each of us with ink that was dark and blue as the ocean at midnight. We opened our mouths to welcome this blessing, letting the cool thick liquid fall on our tongues and anoint imagination. Thunder sounded overhead and the rain began to fall, as it always did at the conclusion of the service; baptizing the word keepers as we began our next 7-day cycle of creation. We wished each other gods speed and fearlessness in the face of  grand ideas. Ideas so immense they crushed us when we let them into mind. We pledged to love these ideas, no matter how frightening or sweet they may be. Filing out of the room,  we returned to our papyrus canoes and continued our journeys up stream to the  source of inspiration and the secret of our joyful tears. Paddling alone along a river whose tributaries lead each of us to our on conclusions. Written June 1st, 2001 © on Jun 02 2001 06:47 AM PST   0 • 12