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I taught a class some years ago, a workshop I cooked up entitled “How to Get From Here to There”.  We spent three Saturdays, me and six other women, figuring out what changes we actually wanted to make  – jobs, relationships, bodies, kids, exercise, enjoyment – and then we devised plans to do it, to make the changes.

We made lists and meditated and we danced and role-played.  We wrote stuff and read it out loud to each other.  We set goals like call the registrar and put the M&M’s in the trunk of the car.  We checked things off as we did them.  We revised when we faltered.  We laughed and cried.  We encouraged each other, we had fun and when the workshop was over, we all felt like some things had changed.  I haven’t seen any of these women in a while but I suspect that they, like me, remember our time fondly and maybe even use some the strategies we developed.

But life is funny, isn’t it, with the only constant being that nothing is constant and that ultimately, we are not in charge.  George Bush may have thought, for that fleeting moment on the deck of the aircraft carrier, that he was the decider, but not even he could claim dominion over the state of democracy in the Middle East today.  It seems that we get to have an affect but we don’t get to orchestrate what that affect will be.  We make a noise and the universe writes the song.

So 10 years ago, while menopause and I were hanging out together, I began writing emails to a pen pal in Vermont during the wee hours of the morning.  The combination of sleep deprivation, heartbreak, and wild facial hair set my brain racing to new levels from which there was little relief except to write it down and send it off.  On and on I went and as the weeks and months surged by, my writings spread out beyond my hormone wracked world to include stories of my life and the lives of those I’ve loved.

No one was safe from my musings.  The names were changed not so much to protect the innocent as to grant creative license – my mother joined with my grandmother joined with my third grade teacher to become the epitome of a character we could love and fear and admire.  Death abounded.  I rode the waves of “change of life” and as the waves subsided, boxes of printed emails, a lust for writing, and a friendship were left in its wake.

The writing led, eventually, to graduate school and graduate school led to more writing.  It also led to my involvement in founding Minerva Rising, a women’s literary journal that began as the heart child of Kim Brown.  Kim called me and asked me if I would be interested in working together with her to create a space for celebrating the creativity of women.  I said yes and here I am.

It’s two years, four issues, and many hours of conference calls, emails and compromises later.  Minerva Rising is a growing community as well as a beautiful journal.  I could not be more proud of what has come of our collective endeavors.

And more change is afoot.

I’m stepping down from my role as Associate Editor so as to make more room for my own writing.  Kim and I are working out how I can remain involved but the feeling of change, while exciting, is still scary and uncomfortable.  I have started making lists and putting the M&M’s in the trunk and dancing and laughing and crying.  Reaching toward the support and encouragement of other women.  And while these are not the things that actually make the change – that change happens whether we dance and sing or not – it is the connections that we create that allow us to go with it, to let it be.

I will be launching my own website soon – www.dulciewitman.com – I hope to see you there.  My deepest thanks go to Kim Brown and Michelle Orr for making me part of Minerva Rising.  You are both amazing.  I look forward to watching our baby soar and helping in any way I can.

And as for me, here I go, hoping I can let it be.

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