Trees and writing

The year was 1992 and I was in Paris for a writing conference. I bemoaned the lack of knowing other writers when the leader said, "But there's Susan Tiberghien in Geneva."

That led me eventually to the then fledgeling Geneva Writers Group. She and they became a creative lifeline. Without them I wouldn't have learned about the masters degree program at Glamorgan in Wales, the place where I published my first poem or received the encouragement to keep writing after the what seemed like the millionth rejection.

I've seen other members go on to publishing success and almost everyone improve in their craft. Partly due to the transient nature of Geneva members have come and gone, many of whom I'm still in contact with as friends and fellow artists of the word.

I attend the workshops less frequently now, but yesterday, Rick and I went. Never, never, never had I come away anything but inspired to do better with my craft.

In ten minute sessions some good to amazing writing was produced by the group of all ages and many nationalities dedicated to producing the best written word possible. For myself, it brought inner reflection on the beauty of the ride to the conference.

Mist clings to the branches and freezes. Nature decorates for Chrismas. Cold penetrates coats, hats, gloves.

Days darken early racing toward the solistice.

Inside, heated houses, electrical under-sheets, lit fireplaces, fuzzy socks protect, but the cold is more interesting then when spring's warmth creates equal indoor and outdoor temperatures.

Some people run to places where mist does not freeze on trees. I cling to cold where mist freezes on branches, giving my world an ephemeral beauty to carry in memory.

Frozen mist on trees

Branches sealed in fairyland white

Trimmings for Noël

Photo above "stolen" from http://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.ch/2013/12/fog.html with "permission."