I could feel a smile threatening to break out as I watched them come. Writers of different ages, sizes, colors, each carrying a brass lantern. Some had bought oils to mark them as different. Their flames burned in purples, pale greens, and silvers. Several writers crept silently, keeping to the shadows of others ahead of them. I didn’t begrudge them. I knew how hard it was to be confident especially when there was so much to fear.

It comforting that there were other lights out there at all, each one brightening up a little piece of the night, but light was not all they brought. Shoved into backpacks, satchels and purses were books and sheaves of papers, pens, pencils, and ink, bottles of wine and hot tea. More important than all of that were the experiences they carried—-we carried. These were my people after all.

When the clock reached eleven, I raised my voice above the din. “Tonight we welcome new and old to share in this gathering. I invite each one of you to share your stories. You are among friends.”