Here I am . It is December One. A full 3 1/2 months since I sat in the desert with a full out throng of brilliant women writers. Way back in August....there were all those pink and purple nights in a row. And each night, as the sun set over the canyons- my eyes would be pulled from the nothing short of majesty of the rocks- as my ears were bedazzled by the words of my fellow writers.

I admit it-I counted myself among them- when the wine made me heady with the delight of hearing their words piercing the thin air- and then hanging there forever. Words that were so important...they fell all around me in the darkness and made me cry. But with each writer's reading, I felt more diminished and insecure.

I would -each night-be stunned aware. Shaken out of this reverie where I belonged with these amazing souls- so full of this incredible creative force. Instead of getting in my little kayak, and paddling along in that energy, I was swallowed alive by it. They all deserved the joy that lit up every face. But I? I was just an observer. Each night- instead of feeling renewed and energized-I felt ashamed of myself. I watched their faces as they read their work. So full of conviction and pride. So sure. And I wanted to die.