I’ve been having these weird acute pains where I start crying because I’m not actually going to be an author. My husband found me this morning holding my pencil and journal, “I’m just needing to let some things go,” I said, but later I was able to give him more specific words. “But Tolkein”, he said, “he was older…” and I am grateful for the comfort but am unable to take it.

“I need to make room for the things in my life”, I continued, by now I was just working on one of our 2-3 page process summaries where we have to talk about the experience of class group therapy from our perspective. I’m actually saying these things to people, at least I am to the teacher. A musician. A dancer. The list keeps going on. These are all things that I have wanted to be.

It sounds really dumb. Of all the problems in the world this is definitely not one of them. I really do think about plenty of other things besides the things that I write here. A lot more. This doesn’t happen all the time, nowhere near all the time. But for whatever reason this is the place that gets the dance of my circles. The writing thing is different and the only one that I cry about.