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May 5, 2021Liked by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

I've known this story for ages. And each time it is retold, something new and different arises, gets included.

Intrinsically, writing is an isolating endeavor. There's a reason we go on retreats, need rooms of our own. Myself, I yearn for, envy in others a sense of belonging—an essential and desired part of a whole.

Not many years ago, I watched YouTube videos of a small town's monthly poetry gatherings. I felt so set apart. Not worthy. I hoped to attend one of those meetings, one day, someday.

Turned out I didn't have a long wait. Within a single-year's time, I was attending. Was being noted. Was being missed when I wasn't able to attend. One member was even hurt when I once arrived unannounced. Seemed the pleasant surprise of my visit was undone by their not knowing, not being able plan and look forward to, my coming to town.

How often is it that we don't see or recognize that what we're envying is something we already have? I envied certain writers in my orbit for their community, for their being crucial parts of a something bigger than them. Envying, when the exact-same thing was already manifest and present—just unseen, unacknowledged.

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