Significant Insignificance

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My first session was tonight, first of five in an Authentic Writing Workshop.

I was nervous being among some writers, even though it was via phone. I felt small, insignificant and like, What have I got to share? My story is unimportant.

I'm not a professional writer. All I write is poetry, my journal, emails, and blogs. None are read much, and that's okay. My poetry and journaling are therapeutic writing; personal unless I decide to share it publicly. Well, most all my poetry appears on some sort of small public platform, but not my journaling. And even on the small public venues, the poetry is still therapeutic.

My blogs are mainly experimental. I don't have an audience. I doubt I ever will. I'm not sure why I decided to blog. I guess I want to be heard. But why; why does that even matter? And who even hears? And what impact would it ever have? Maybe those questions will be answered as I continue the process; maybe not.

In the workshop tonight I was again reminded of the importance of one's story. The story. The story.

No matter how unimportant one's story my seem, no matter how uneventful, no matter how insignificant, each story is unique and is worthy. Every window from which light emerges on a dark night, behind that pane is a story. Beyond it is a story. Inside the door and outside the door, is a story.

I was again reminded of my recent 'motto', or 'mantra'...if one dares: "There are no non-persons; there are no non-events."

Well now, this little blog took on ironic poles: the insignificance of my pennings, yet the significance of each person's story.

I am a person.

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