Tribute to my writing group:

My magical place

Every Thursday morning, I go to my magical place
It has no breathtaking views of mountains, canals and rivers.
There are no swaying palm trees overlooking a sunny beach as the waves caress the golden sand
It is simply a place with tables and chairs
However, there is a magic carpet that transports those in attendance by written words
to myriad experiences
Initially timid and fearful to share, the words have exploded into a never-ending series of wonder
We have had dinner in Buenos Aires with family members, and caressed the tapestries of Istanbul
Explored the compelling search for family roots and watched attempts at family reconciliations
Sifted the complex career questions that lead to solutions that transform
There has been panic as flames and smoke threatened human life
We have sat in the halls of cancer wards and witnessed the fearful faces be touched by hope
There has been mirth by the image of a cookie tin with ashes circling aimlessly on a conveyor belt
There have been tears watered by the loss of loved one and exploration of beliefs about death and dying while wondering how many showers we have left.
In this magical place casual acquaintances have bonded into a loving group no longer fearful of sharing with full candor the core of their lives.