writing groups

Recently a friend posted about some "promises to the muse" and some items on the list made me yearn for the little pool of creativity and friendship we had for a year or two or three.  I thought I would write about how I feel looking back on those experiences.
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Wednesdays and Saturdays... Towards the end of my time in small town Kentucky I would look forward to those two days with such anticipation that I wished there were no days in between. Wednesdays were never as productive for me as Saturdays, though.  One of us would bring a prompt, oftentimes me.  I'd try to create a structure out of it on paper, a little brick and mortar wall or pedestal.  But whatever blueprints I drew out on those evenings never built anything that withstood stormy weather; The first wind gust knocked it down.  I suppose evenings were not my best time to be a wordsmith.  Those evenings were more about seeing the faces I loved, hearing the voices -- in writing and from persons.  Afterward some of us would visit a while longer, talk about what we'd been reading, classwork, music, daily lives.  Going out into the night under a canopy of southern oaks and distant stars, I'd feel giddy with a sense of place that fluttered in my hands and heart.  We'd say our goodbyes and I would wait for Saturday.

Wednesdays were a teaser that satisfied me like a warm cup of coffee on a cool morning until Saturday arrived.  Those mornings we usually met at a coffee shop. The last year I would wake, dress, and eagerly step out bundled up in warm coats into the cold to walk a mile to the coffee shop on one of the main thoroughfares through town.  I'd ponder the neighborhoods and front porches I'd pass, the railroad tracks and iron nails, great oak trees and stone walls, until I stepped on the pea gravel in the back lot and pulled on that door that always required an extra bit of strength to yank it open.  I'd walk around the corner and see the table set, 5 or 6 chairs already pulled into place, and a couple of our group sitting with warm coffee cups in their hands, faces warm with its glow.  There was always a friendly hello, one so warm and welcoming as if they hadn't seen me in months.  What a way to feel at home!  I'd order my cafe mocha, another his espresso, another her coffee with creamer, another her hot tea with honey, and so on.  Some of us would get a pastry or flapjack.  Sometimes the breakfast lasted into the writing time; It didn't matter.  Sometimes I brought a prompt I found as quote in a book or as a found object along the path.  Others brought prompts, starters, jumper cables, anything that would break creative monotony.  We'd introduce the prompt and a quiet hush would fall upon us as we rested our minds and let the ideas begin to open doors and point out pathways. Then pens and pencils would begin scratching on worn journal pages, some of us sitting square at the table with cup and plate crowding our space but we wouldn't notice because the scene was opening and we were writing it down to remember.  Others angled away from the group a little, journal resting on knee and backs arched to over absorb the shock of places and people jotting across the pages.  I'd look up from time to time to see a quiet face staring off into a history that was both real and created with eyes warm and concentrated on thought.   I kept the timer, though I never set it to have a noisy alarm to signal the end of 20 minutes.  I didn't want to jolt anyone out of a word landscape that was comfortable and welcoming like an alarm clock shakes you out of a dream that you wanted to live in.  The twenty minutes quietly came upon each of us and when we were ready we each began to look to each other, smile, whisper, nod, eat our pastries, and drink coffee, until everyone had resurfaced.  Someone would volunteer to go first.  She'd read aloud an excerpt or all of what she wrote during those twenty minutes.  We'd listen with captivated ears, both listening to her voice, the persona in the story, the rush of air through the door when someone entered the coffee shop, and to our own thoughts continuing about what we'd written.  We'd blink when she read aloud a sentence or phrase that sounded musical and vibrated like a plucked stringed instrument.  We'd remember those moments and recall them back to her when she finished reading, watching her face flicker warmly with the appreciation.  Then another person would read, and another.  Sometimes the moment brought something too personal and private, so a writer would pass on reading; That was okay because the next Saturday they'd find something they could share.  And other times the writer would preface with their own criticism of what they wrote only to find the listeners found pieces in it that glowed like the rising sun.    After everyone had had his or her turn to read their writing, we'd chatter for a few more minutes, then some of us would leave to meet friends for lunch, run errands, continue on with our day.  Others might carry-over the warmth over another cup of coffee, talking about poetry book projects and current reading and philosophies.  And then we'd break away to turn to our own daily tasks and wait for the next Saturday to arrive.
These were the free-writing group days I miss.