The dark.

Finished watching True Blood for the season. I have no more vampire novels at my disposal. Watched the current episodes of Californication and Heroes. Ate dinner. Had a post dinner snack. and then another. What happens when the diversions run out? There are always more- endless to be had. I should be studying, but have little desire and even less focus right now.

I have become part of a writing group, at our last meeting the theme was "accidents" and people expressed that this was a downer. We free wrote and shared and there was this philosophical levity as no one actually named an internal scar and others of us held our notebooks to chest and muttered "I'll pass." When i did share some writing about my car accident there was an ugh and I felt as if had dropped a weight into the room. In another piece of writing, a woman misread the source of sadness and tried to talk me out of it- offering another way to view the situation. Sweet and well-intentioned, but she was off the mark.

I have always known that there is a darkness that is part of my personality, and at times I have clung to it like a comfortable blanket, yes, but I don't believe it is a bad thing.It surprises me when I discover that others shirk from this underbelly that certainly underscores my existence. I suppose being around so many quasi buddhists I have come to believe that everyone is grappling with the idea that life is suffering, but then I sat in this room of lovely women who originally were drawn together for a food writing class and I see how they have created a norm of positivity- an embrace of zest- and I wonder if who I am these days can have a place among them.

The thing is, I'm not so sad anymore, not most days. I still have my moments, but this is life. grief and joy, two sides of the same coin. I now know this intimately. I spent a weekend with Sobonfu Some a month ago where she led us through a ritual to pour out this grief- to drag it out of ourselves and lay it down, and it was powerful, uplifting. My limbs have been lighter since. And even now as winter closes in, the sun sets at 4, and I feel myself, too, pull in crawling under cover, I don't lament or fight it. I don't have to be something I'm not.

I suppose I am needing to accept that just as I don't want to pretend to be happy, or light, others may not want to act cynical or wry- perhaps just plain goodness is not always embraced either (especially among writers). The question is, do I place my writing on their table- is it safe? for me? for them?