That Song by G-Side, or, Success, One Small Step at a Time

While I was on vacation I received some very exciting news--the San Francisco Public Library had approved my request for space, and now I finally had a writing group in my neighborhood. The fact that I am leading it is just frosting on the cake, since the teacher in me gets to bloom again with my favorite subject: the application of words to the page. Due to rules and regulations I can't have the space weekly, but twice a month will do; I have a guest-facilitator position with the Wednesday night version of the group in the Mission, and there is a critique session once a month in the Mission on the first Thursday of the month. That spare Thursday? Well, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is open late on Thursdays, or there may be the occasional Giants game, or--GOOD GRIEF, I LIVE IN A CITY. IT'S NOT THAT I'LL HAVE NOTHING TO DO.

Heh, heh.

Then last night the founder of the group, the man who has managed to bring what is currently 1,088 of us, over a span of two coasts, together bequeathed his group to me. It was a humbling and somewhat emotional experience. This gentleman started the group in 2007 (he started it in August and I joined in November), and he's held the South of Market (SoMA) meetings since that time. I have filled in for him from time to time, but we had discussed me taking over this session so that he could branch out within the group and help facilitators with other sessions. He turned it over to me last night with well-wishes and a handshake, and I conducted the session. That was intimidating, but not in a bad way. It's just that he's so good at it that I felt like a relief pitcher in the World Series. (C'mon, you mean I gotta follow THOSE eight innings? You sure he can't stay in? Does he have to watch?) The honor was quiet and profound.

There are other honors to come from this. For the first time in my life as a leader, I have a back-up, a wonderful and inspirational woman that attends two of the groups a week with me, so that if I get a sudden summons to San Diego for a free sunburn, she has my back. She is very supportive to all of the members, and to know that she's got my back is humbling as well. I get to work with a whole collection of leaders devoted to the craft and to introducing others to its satisfaction and discipline. All this, and no, I don't get paid. Well, not in money, anyway. The Healer tells me that that part is for people who don't understand personal passion when I get excited about this, and the Airman and my brother say, "Joke 'em if they can't take a--" I think you get the picture.

Yes, the time is drawing down to where I will soon have to punch a clock again, any clock, but for now my payment is in collective passion of dreams coming true, dreaming with my eyes wide open.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from, yo. "If he died with his eyes open I could tell that he would focus." Word.