Full of anxiety about a new something that was beginning tonight, I spent much of the day stitching and stitching on this rainbow edging. This cloth has been therapeutic even before it gets to Wendy. I suppose that's true of most stitchings.
Anyhow . . . Anxiety. Talking with my sister this afternoon, she said a lot of smart things, but the connection wasn't great, so I missed a bunch of it, but could feel it was good stuff. We wondered how often anxiety is habitual? And if it is a habit, how do you break it? And what if it's a Pavlov's Dog habit, something your body has learned to do, no matter what you think? I suggested eating cake every time the stressor happens.
Tonight's nervousness/pounding heart/hives came from starting a writing class. It's been thirty years since I wrote for a class. Would they all be twenty-something? Would I be the only newbie? Would they all be "real" writers? Would they make me read my writing out loud? Would I get off at the right bus stop and find my way there?
The first thing she had us do was make a list of things people might not know about us, and then we would share one of them. The first thing I wrote was "panicking panicking panicking" The one I actually shared was- "Out of irrational fear, I will do everything in my power not to step on metal coverings in the sidewalk."
Arriving right on time, there were six of us, a range of twenty-something to my fifty-something, four of us new (or rusty) to writing classes, two had books waiting to be published, and the teacher said that she would never make us share our work. It was off to a swell start.
It was good. Really Good. We read wonderful essays aloud, talked about them, and ended with a timed exercise of writing a List Essay, that I ended up wanting to share.
