I have been invited into a writing group with two very gifted poets at the small church I’ve been attending, and I am (again) changed.  Perhaps more than anything else, I am a writer, and going to college and entering an academic and creative atmosphere like the one in and around Lipscomb’s English department was a powerful catalyst in my development as a thinker, poet, observer, essayist.  Graduation sent me in a bee-line toward graduate school, cancer put me in a tail-spin and the year of recovery has seen me slowly entering a new season of life that includes love, a new understanding of commitment, and, more recently, a new creative community.

It’s grand.  It’s a rush.  It’s more exciting than I can say to come back into an awareness of the honor of poetry, and writing in general.  I’ve always understood writing to be a high calling, but I left most of my friends who understand this in a profound, first-hand, experiential sense, behind in Nashville.  Or in Colombia.  Or in Mississippi.  Meeting this morning for the second time with Mary and Austin (who, serendipitously, or providentially, was part of that Nashville creative community for a brief while!) is gathering up so many of those loose ends I left hanging.

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