I go to my writing group about once a month and have done that for probably 8 years (?). You know, I really have no idea. But the deal is, if I’m not traveling somewhere else and it’s the writing group date…I’m SO there.

The group has changed players a few times but our current group has been the same for a few years at least. Our one and only token man is a very funny writer. His stuff is often essays on the act of writing and he’s also been working on a his version of a classic, that is quite hilarious.

Another woman writes poems and quietly powerful prose that reminds me of my favourite writer, Annie Dillard.  Her reflections on nature are quietly acute and feel sacred at the same time.

Our other member is actually the facilitator so she doesn’t share her stuff too often, but when she does, it’s often her novel set in Russia or her lablog unexpected piece that was total fantasy and left me begging her to add the next chapters.

There is another member, Gillie Hutchinson, who like me, seems to be away a lot, but she’s been steadily working on her coming-of-age novel that takes place in various locales like  New York, Los Angeles and London.

And finally, there is our other member…she writes stories that are set in a time with Woolworth lunch counters, and with young women trying to raise their children or characters remembering their first television and the wonder of finally being able to see their favourite baseball players running the bases instead of just hearing and imagining the scene from the radio announcer.  Her stories are my portal into another time and place.

As well, this writer just returned from a trip to Thailand with some of her adult children, but this trip had a twist… she had a stroke while there.

This is the first time she has really felt like she might be getting older. She brought this poem to our group last Sunday and I asked her two things.. can I share your age and your poem on my blog? I nearly fell out of my chair when she told me she’s 79. I hope I look that good when I’m 60. She’s quite amazing.

I realize that collectively our writing is not  Booker Prize material but I do know that I have learned so much in this group…not just from the constructive criticism and encouragement that has been afforded to me but from having to really read and work with their pieces too.

And now also, to learn about aging, by having the benefit of wise women and men who are a little further down the road than me and can shed some light on what that feels and looks like.

And so, here is the poem from Joan Wilcox of Gibsons, British Columbia.

Moments in Time

The blossoms on the plum tree

lasted longer

this year

because I was there

observing

not running hither and yon

to squeeze all of life into

these

my final years

and miss

the moments of ecstacy

To have less on the calendar

excites me

To do only what I desire

Write

Hold hands with my husband

while we watch our favourite shows

keeping warm

under a fleece blanket

Reading different books together

having tea in the early morning

and coffee before lunch

with a homemade cookie

Taking a morning walk

going to bed early

to cuddle

only now aware

that each moment we share is precious

Being there when my children phone

when they are experiencing

an adjustment

in their lives

I am there to listen

and now

I have more wisdom