Twenty people from Canada, England, Greece, ME, PA, MI, NY, WA, and RI chatted in their geography and, with their presence, showed an interest in puzzling together possible meanings in Lucille Clifton’s ”blessing the boats.” This poem, written entirely in small cap and sans punctuation, furnished a gentle feeling for many participants, who heard “a prayer for these times,” “an Irish prayer with ‘the wind at your back,”’ a blessing, a sendoff to another place, perhaps even to a time and place beyond death. We selected this poem mindful of the transition of going into September, into the fall, and – for many – into the school year. In the shadow of the poem, each of us identified a transition in our own lives, envisioning ourselves collectively “in our boats”. As someone observed: “we are now beyond our initial understanding of what COVID is all about”, getting “glimpses or brightness” and yet still navigating the unknown. The word “may” (appearing four times in the body of poem) suggests uncertainty, possibility, permission and, in that way, allows readers a freedom to sail the poem at their own pace and understand as they will. For some, the poem exuded “gentle simplicity”. One person offered that water in literature suggests baptism and beginnings.

Many highlighted the physicality embedded in the text. The word “lip” (the lip of our understanding), was a stumbling block, a “halting” for some and, for others, an evocation of an edge, a cusp, a beginning. The “back” makes us think of a “concrete body”. One person mentioned that she had expected to read the reciprocal “love you back” but remembered to read closely (narrative’s MO) and read that the “you” (addressed in the poem) could turn from the wind and expect the wind to “love your back.” Oh, the many discoveries we make when we close read! Another participant expressed their experience of physical sensuousness that included feeling hands laid on the back of passenger(s) embarking from a place as nebulous as “this” to an unnamed “that.”  The word “innocence” called to many, who paired the word with ideas of trust, energy, and the protection of not knowing.  

One participant remembered spending time, as an aspirant to medical practice, at St. Mary’s, the geography pointed to by the poet Lucille Clifton, steering a craft on the “lip” of waves in Chesapeake Bay. Like others he brought into the discussion the trust needed to turn one’s back on the wind and allow/expect the wind to love your back.

The prompt “Write about turning from the face of fear” brought creative writing that described snorkeling in the Pacific Ocean; feeling fear (“cold, pressing “) by night and day and respite from this fear that prayer brings; choice/options depicted by Door 1 and Door 2; and references to current events and the promulgation of a fear-based culture. Together, we reflected on how fear takes on different forms, including based on the stories we tell ourselves and others.   As we adjourned (knowing we will have a holiday hiatus on September 7 and be together again on September 14), participants chatted words and phrases expressing what they were taking with them this evening: beauty, bravery, gentle transition, hope, letting my back be loved, stillness, surfing gently, and trust. Thank you for sailing with us, and see you soon!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday, September 2nd at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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blessing the boats
BY LUCILLE CLIFTON

                                    (at St. Mary's)

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back     may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that


Lucille Clifton, "blessing the boats" 
from Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems 1988-2000. 
Copyright © 2000 by Lucille Clifton.

21 people attended today’s session, from Turkey, London, Pennsylvania, New York, California and other locales. After reading “Plum,” the excerpt from the novel “How Much of These Hills is Gold” by C Pam Zhang, we considered these opening questions, “Who do we see, who do we hear operating in this piece?” The discussion initially centered around beings and relationships: the narrator (age unknown), the mother and child (“Five, full of destruction”), another relative, some important pork, and a dead snake that captured everyone’s attention.

Participants noted how the child’s (Lucy) spirit and enthusiasm fills a home space already brimming with humidity, odors, textures and other sensations that made us wonder not only where home is, but what home is — the text seemed to reframe our very notion of home as we entered the characters’ kitchen to learn about how maternal rules govern the snake’s final home.

The title of the excerpt, “Plum,” inspired dialogue around the juicy fruit with edible skin, desirable and possibly symbolic of other biblical connections to a garden of temptation, a snake, and flooding. As the author referenced unfurling as a revelation, our layered discussion too led us to a paradoxical place, where one participant asserted that “Ma’s rules haven’t bound this child; they encourage liberty.” And as one participant described the snake as an ouroboros circling back onto itself eternally, our conversation returned to the snake and its meaning/associations:  a symbol of healing? Caduceus? A mysterious death? What is its future purpose?

The prompt “Write about the one who makes the rules” elicited a range of rule-making subjects from oneself, to family members, to the spirit. One respondent felt that making choices along their  life path requires  a conversation between a gentler kinder inner being and a “voice in the heavens.”  Each human being  is multidimensional in listening to and following rules. Another wrote “rules are meant to be broken” yet confessed to being reluctant to break rules, to cause trouble, to get caught. The same writer proposed, “I admire those who break the rules for a ‘greater right.’” A listener responded, “I am a rule breaker, and I encourage you to be one.”  Sometimes, wrote another participant, the spirit sets the rules and takes us on a wild ride.  Still another wrote in a rebellious spirit about a brother’s rule for his teenaged sister: girls don’t call boys.  Another writer observed what happens when a child is allowed to make the rules.  First there is hesitancy, then unbridled freedom, then some reactionary rule setting, “worlds within worlds,” and finally a “shrieking as they are visible and naked.” 

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday, August 31st at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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Plum

          It was Ma who laid down rules for burying the dead.

            Lucy’s first dead thing was a snake. Five and full of destruction, she stomped puddles just to see the world flood. She leapt, landed. When the waves quit their crashing she stood in a ditch emptied of water. Coiled at its bottom, a drowned black snake.

            The ground steamed pungent wet. The buds on the trees were splitting, showing their paler insides. Lucy ran home with scales between her palms, aware that the world unfurled its hidden side.

            Ma smiled to see her. Kept smiling as Lucy opened her hands.

            Later, too late, Lucy would think on how another mother might have screamed, scolded, lied. How Ba, if Ba were there, might have said the snake was sleeping, and spun a tale to chase the hush of death right out the window.

            Ma only hefted her pan of pork and tied her apron tighter. Said, Lucy girl, burial zhi shi another recipe.

            Lucy prepared the snake alongside the meat.

            First rule, silver. To weigh down the spirit, Ma said as she peeled a caul of fat from the pork. She sent Lucy to her trunk. Beneath the heavy lid and its peculiar smell, between layers of fabric and dried herbs, Lucy found a silver thimble just large enough to fit over the snake’s head.

            Second, running water. To purify the spirit, Ma said as she washed the meat in a bucket. Her long fingers picked maggots free. Beside her, Lucy submerged the snake’s body.

            Third, a home. The most important rule of all, Ma said as her knife hacked through gristle. Silver and water could seal a spirit for a time, keep it from tarnish. But it was home that kept the spirit safe-settled. Home that kept it from wandering back, restless, returning time and again like some migrant bird. Lucy? Ma asked, knife paused. You know where?

            Lucy’s faced warmed, as if Ma quizzed her on sums she hadn’t studied. Home, Ma said again, and Lucy said it back, chewing her lip. Finally Ma cupped Lucy’s face with a hand warm and slick and redolent of flesh.

            Fang xin, Ma Said. Told Lucy to loosen her heart. It’s not hard. A snake belongs in its burrow. You see? Ma told Lucy to leave the burying. Told her to run off and play.

From  How Much of These Hills is Gold by C Pam Zhang

On Monday August 24, 2020 twenty-eight people participated in slow-looking and then discussing two black and white photographs taken by Tina Modotti, who traveled with Edward Weston to Mexico in the 1920s and became involved with the cause of workers.

Participants from England, India, Mexico, and the Philippines joined those from CA, CT, ME, NY, NJ, NM, and PA in responding to the photos titled “Hands Resting on a Tool” and “Hands Washing”: noticing the contrasts of dark and light, motion and stillness, the upright posture of one subject and the stooped or kneeling posture of another. People said they wanted to see the workers’ faces, guessed age and gender, wondered if those who were pictured worked for themselves or others, and drew our attention to the hands of the photographer, which do not appear in the prints. Looking closely at the photographs and creating possible meanings, participants imagined strength and purpose in the workers’ hand, and sympathy with the cause of workers on the part of the one documenting their labor. One person said the photos suggested sculpture, that these portraits of hands might be extended to include torsos and faces and formed into sculptures. Another person observed that the “pinky” of the hands that were washing was missing a joint. Looking at those hands, one person recalled the axiom “A woman’s work is never done” and also said that there was no real rest because the “resting” of hands on a tool was posed. One person remembered that the name Antwerp comes from a story involving hands and that colonial rulers sometimes punished those they colonized in Africa by severing their hands. This lead to discussing the many functions of hands and segued to the prompt: “Write about what hands can do.”

A handful of people read their 5-minutes of writing. These included narratives connecting hands to the mind or the heart, to the capacity to heal and hurt, and to prayerful intentions to “do only good.” As participants responded to what was read they mentioned images evoked (such as tree branches); comparing and contrasting the capacities that hands hold; the language of hands; gracefulness and movement; a series of questions that narrowed and deepened thought; playfulness in a piece of fiction and the possibilities afforded by prosthetic limbs. One account detailed the procedure of home dialysis—the procedure beginning with the sounds and rhythm of “snap and tap” that felt like a dance and included the seriousness of purpose to “remove deadly bubbles” from the lines connecting person and machine.

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday, August 26th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

Our text was “Last Writes” by Sandra Becker, posted below.

After two participants read the poem aloud individually, we read it a third time silently as a group. Participants noted how the poem’s metaphorical language, wry tone and confident humor help make a serious subject not only bearable but darkly funny and surprising as an inroad to consider revising one’s narrative: “The poet refers to the darkness but excuses it if it’s well written.” One participant associated the poem’s word play and profanity with a comedy club or spoken word performance; someone else saw/heard it as a meditation, a “railing on limitations of free will.” The group made a meta-level connection between the philosophy of not being a perfectionist with living/writing/singing off-key.

The conversation continued, exploring the work the poem does: bringing light to a dark subject, providing an opportunity to look at “hard stuff” and effect personal change, linking subjectivity with sensitivity. Aligned with the narrative medicine principle of representation, the group paused to explore the end of the poem (“hope via indecision,” “an intellectual exploration with no resolution”), a place where the narrator gives up the idea of perfectionism, and “takes the pressure off in a beautiful way.”

Our reflective writing was to the prompt: “Write about something off-key.”

We had five individuals who shared their reflective writings. There was a broad range of interpretation starting with a take on the dark humor of the text with an imaginative narrative about the organs of a body having a discussion. The next share set an immediate tone of expectation exploring the child’s ideal with a narrative revealing the differences between adult and child perspectives. Another reflection went right to the subject of suicide directly addressing, through poetic description, patient differences both in being and circumstance. This was followed by a reflection about meeting a man diagnosed with schizophrenia. Our participants’ comments observed that through the eyes of this patient we see something new and that if we look closer we may see something we hadn’t seen before. The final shared writing was about a runner struggling to complete a marathon. A man appears off to the side some distance away – he calls to her by name saying “you can make it, you can make it.” No one else had seen this young man cheering the racers on. The last line “I believe in the unexpected” was commented on as a magical ending, which caused a bit of goosebumps; a wholly different take on something off key.

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday, August 24th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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Last Writes by Sandra Becker

Swallow bleach — too painful,
go up in flames — lifelong fear.
Ah, a gun with a two-hour safety lesson
(I must get it right this time).
I’m pro-gun for euthanasia.
This really isn’t meant to be morbid.
When discussing poems, films, and books,
I’ve always told people I don’t care how dark
the subject as long as it’s well-written.
I’ve not chosen a day or time yet, so this may be my   last poem.
I’m giving it a shot (unintended pun).
I’m aiming (shit!) for truth, yes,
but, more importantly, it’s a poem, for God’s sake, so
veracity to poetic elements is most important.
So far, strong opening with a good hook, an unexpected turn.
Puns ease tension if used sparingly.
Revision essential to get it right.
Tense — present, of course.
Pacing — that of a waterfall bound to its given course.
Stanza breaks — none. One life, all connected, eternal.
Music — well, it’s life, silly — imperfect, can’t have everything.
Unfathomable, unpredictable, impermanent life.
Is that how God wrote it, and, Lord knows,
I’ve always been quite the perfectionist.
Why not loosen up, break some rules, have a little fun?
Sing off-key, but sing.

Last Writes by Sandra Becker.
The Sun, Last Writes, C. Bursk Copyright © 2020

Thirty people joined our narrative “sanctuary” — hailing from Canada, England, India, California, Maine, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington.  A number of brave first-time participants contributed observations and associations alongside those who have been consistently joining these Monday evening discussions.

Our text was “Sanctuary” by Carolyn Forché, posted below.

Carolyn Forche’s poem elicited multiple, possible spaces during our reading: dream, film, memory, a Costa Rican cloud forest, Kentucky mountains, and West Virginia. As one particpant said, despite sentences written in past and conditional tenses, the text radiates a sense of timelessness. Another spoke of memory as a refuge or a sanctuary, like the eponymous title, where one is able to return.  Several people commented on the poem’s suggestion of a confluence of the senses beginning with “[l]ight pealed, bell-like” in the first line.  

One reader puzzled over the paradoxical notion of the horses’ freedom and the unfreedom of bridles.  Group participants discovered care in the poem, in the mention of a poultice applied to “suck the poison” applied by an unnamed “she.” They were reminded of being  givers or receivers of care, when treated with a poultice made by one’s mother and, conversely, applying a poultice to keep a mother’s wounded horse alive while mother was in the hospital.

More than one person found themselves captivated, midway through the poem, by the mention of a mahogany coffin. Two people wondered if the coffin is where the woman who made the poultice kept her herbs.  Someone else wondered if the coffin signifies death and suggests that death can be a sanctuary from suffering.  

Our prompt was a choice between:

Write about a journey you would make again.

OR

Write about a sanctuary.

Ten people shared their four minutes of writing by reading aloud narratives of travel (alone and with others), care, the well-known topography of a loved one’s face, and the restoring aspects of being in nature.  In listening, we were told of a trip by donkey to the Valley of the Kings and a new friendship formed.  One person’s writing took her to a place that imaginatively combines many places she has traveled in the past.  Another person described a journey without regard to place as the traveler focused on the face of the traveling companion.   Also, In the shadow of the epigram to Forché’s poem:

Ce voyage, je voulais le refaire–––

This journey, I would like to make again–––

one narrative alternated between French and English in a rich evocation of places known or imagined. This prompted, for the second time, the idea that one language may not be enough to contain the complexity of deep experience.

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday, August 19th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

Sanctuary
 
                                         Ce voyage, je voulais le refaire–––
                                         This journey, I would like to make again–––
 
 
Light pealed, bell-like through the canopy. Long ago or seems so.
Then the ghost of a deer and crows flapping through smoke.
She made a poultice for me of herbs and mud to suck the poison from the boil.
And then she went into a mahogany coffin. As there were then.
Mornings, horses cantered through ground fog having broken loose.
So I would go out for them, bridles in hand, with no one awake.
The closer I came to them, the further they moved away.
Following them through the clouds is a journey I would make again. 
 
 
Forché, Carolyn. In the Lateness of the World. 2020. New York: Penguin Press.

We opened with 28 participants from New York, California, Dallas, Philadelphia, central
Massachusetts, Montreal, Hamilton, Bahrain, the Philippines, and elsewhere.

The text was Ron Padgett’s poem “Hello Central,” and the opening question was “Who
is this poem’s narrator?” Who is telling the story? The first respondent thought this
speaker could be any one of us. Someone else offered that the positioning of the
speaker outside of “central” suggested that she or he is part of a marginalized group.
Several people mentioned that they weren’t sure the gender of the speaker, though
some thought the speaker may be female given the pointed reference to “illustrious
men” and the speaker’s position outside of the majority group. Still another person
thought the speaker might be the poet himself. We spoke about the poet’s move from
the general to the particular or, as one responder put it, from the community view to the
individual view, from the communal history to the experience of one individual. Nostalgia
was another theme of our discussion. Participants found that the rather mundane
descriptions of the first stanza took on a warmth and even a romanticism in the
nostalgic recollection of the second stanza. Another noted the direct address in the title
“Hello Central,” pointing out that such an address posits a speaker and a listener. The
decentralizing of the school also reflects the decentralizing of the poem’s speaker. But
by the last stanza, the remembered teacher calls for response, thus restoring the
student and speaker of the poem back to the center. Another mentioned that the
student even sits in the “center” row. Another question we wrestled with was “What
does the phrase ‘useful as a brick’ bring up for us?” One reader saw the poem’s very
form (two stacked stanzas) as brick like. Others mentioned the deceptively plain
language of the poem, a blandness that reflects the poet’s view of “Central” as
colorless and odorless. Another said that by the end of the poem we’ve lost the bricks
and mortar of the school, but there’s still the brick and mortar of its existence in
memory.

We wrote to the prompt, “Write a place you returned to.” Our first reader turned this idea
around. Beginning with the idea that “there’s no going back,” she explored what the
alternatives might be. We noticed that how this response highlighted something
embedded in the prompt’s call to think about returning to a place: that the place,
wherever and whatever it is, holds importance to us. Our second reader used poetic
devices like alliteration of s-words to whisper to us about an outdoor space, quite in
contrast to the plain prose about a very plainly named building that was featured in the
prose poem where we started our session. We also remarked that when we return to a
place, we often also return to the age we were when we were there before, as the
poem’s narrator imagines being back in a classroom with Miss Quesenbery. Our fourth
reader used metaphors of traveling in circles to describe her thoughts. And, curiously,
those thoughts were pulled forward by the tracks in the dirt, rather than making the
tracks. Her idea of things she couldn’t help returning to added yet another interpretation
of the prompt. In the day’s final piece, we heard about a narrator who saw the “same
lush trees of June” but found them distorted because she was not the same and never
could be. We thought about how the passage of time means we can never return to the
same space.

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday, August 17th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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Hello Central by Ron Padgett

I attended a high school whose name was colorless and odorless: Central
High School. It was called that because it was built in the middle of town,
so that students could converge on it equidistantly. Then the city added
other high schools, all named after illustrious men. The students there
could associate their schools with these figures, but we at Central could
no longer even associate our school with centrality, since by then the
city had expanded and become lopsided. The name Central had become
totally abstract. After sixty years the structure was deemed inadequate,
and a new Central was built—in the northwest corner of town—discon-
necting the school’s name from its last vestige of meaning.
       In the many times I have returned to my hometown I have never once
driven out to see the new Central. Instead I cruise past the renovated old
structure that now is used as an office building. In my mind’s eye I dash
up the steps and into the hallways crowded with students who only an
hour ago were lost in sleep. I enter room 212 and take my seat at the back
of the center row and feel the day click into place when the bell rings and
Miss Quesenbery looks at her roll book, brushes back an errant strand of
hair, and starts down the alphabet. A rush of anticipation rises in me as
she approaches my name, and when she says it, I answer “Here” in a voice
that makes me feel useful, like a brick.

“Hello Central” by Ron Padgett from Collected Poems. © Coffee House Press, 2013.

Thirty people Zoom-gathered this evening from Argentina, Brazil, Canada, England, India and several states in the USA.

Today, we “close looked” at a new kind of text: a mural found in the city of Philadelphia titled “Everything the Light Touches,” designed by Brad Carney with The U School students, and painted with Asociacion Puertorriquenos en Marcha and the 8th and Diamond Rec Center for Mural Arts Philadelphia. After one minute of silent close looking, we shared our impressions and observations. Our first respondent brought attention to the movement in the piece by sharing some of the words that came to her in observing the painting; participants brimmed with observations of what they saw as actions of “reaching, grasping, expanding” in the postures of figures in the mural who they saw “skating, dancing, writing” as they looked for freedom and connection. Some saw women represented and thought of “sisterhood” and added the idea of “female energy” even attempts to “emancipate through writing.”

One person said, “Philly is a city of murals” and followed with a “seeing Ben Franklin.” Freedom was again mentioned, which seems fitting with what we know about the city’s early history, congresses, and the Liberty Bell. The second time it was mentioned as “Freedom into flying” and pointing to a figure that looked as if about to leave the ground.

More than one participant saw music–music floating, music “adding color”, music reaching different corners.  The mural’s narrative brought associations to Yeats’ “negative capability,” which suggests the value of living with uncertainty. (A value held by NM close-reading and slow-looking in which we explore together without illusions of “solving” or certainty in deciphering texts.)

Attention was paid to the bright colors, the “opacity” of the blue, red, pink, and green; the combination of realism, impressionism, and abstraction, and how these aspects “enliven architecture.” As one participant contributed: “There is more to an inner city than bricks and cement.” That comment took us back to an earlier visual text and our discussion of that which is “swirling in the air.” Another said the lines in the mural’s design made her think of the technique of drawing without lifting the lead from the paper, which provides continuity to the rendering.

Before prompting 4-minutes of writing, when we asked participants to “chat” possible titles for the (as yet unrevealed) title for this community mural, people suggested;

Freedom

Blowing Circles—Walls of Jericho

Color Me Here

Chromatic Scripts

Flights of Fancy

Seize Your Joy

Philadelphia Notes

Unconditional Colorful Release

Urban Ballet

Urban Jazz

Urban Jam

When asked to “Portray a person, place, or thing that you wish the light touched” those who read their work aloud shared odes to people (family or friends) whose lives seemed limited due to aging or other situations that writers wished light (internal or external) could shine on them. There were comments about limiting our own assumptions about who or when to shine a light on another. As we shared our thoughts, we reflected on the need to be attentive and mindful as we shine light on others – what kind of light would they prefer? whose stories are we taking up and colonizing? Participants were grateful for the new perspective this piece and each other’s writings contributed, flipping “our expectations of light being a good thing”. It also revealed how assumptions may shape what we see and hear, or what we look for.

These comments fit well with another person’s writing about turning over rocks in nature and uncovering life that preferred the dark. The writer gave voice to the lives of these “roly-polies” who asked the narrator to cover them up again and leave them in the dark.    

We closed off by asking ourselves questions about the nature and the origin of light:  “Does lightness have to come from the outside?” “Or can it come from the inside?” “Or does it matter as long as we get to experience it?”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday, August 12th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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