Am I good enough? 
This is the question I’m pondering as I prepare for a second writing workshop. 
This year marks the first time in a really long while that I’ve made a commitment to personal reflection.
I looked for something local, but the timing didn’t work. Monday afternoons from 4-6 p.m. for eight weeks doesn’t sync with a working woman’s schedule. 
And so in the tradition of serendipity or synchronicity or something else altogether, a sponsored ad showed up in my social media feed. 
Was I interested in a mini-memoir class at a bookstore called Brave + Kind in Decatur? 
Maybe it could be a first step – a “mini” step, I thought before clicking on the link. Discovering the class was led by someone who had published narrative non-fiction essays in several of the publications I follow, I clicked again. 
Down the rabbit hole I tumbled, following the links and reading the stories she shared. 
She wrote about falling in love with a family of Serbian refugees. And I reflected back to when Grace stepped up to bring to Habersham County a family from Bosnia. 
Bejda was a mom like me. Seeking peace for her family in the aftermath of devastation. Along with another friend, we bonded over boiled black coffee while our children took art classes with Ms. Jan Walker from 4-6 p.m. on Monday afternoons.
Another link. Another click. The workshop leader wrote about mental illness and the suicide of a close family member. 
Again, a common thread, frayed from my own past, triggered the trauma of a step-grandfather’s traumatic end. 
Could I carve out two hours on Sunday afternoons every other week for four sessions? 
I said ‘yes’ to myself.
This week, we were instructed to bring a few items for inspiration. 
My mother’s pearls. 
Two books – one about church signs and the other about photography. 
And a stack of photographs stamped 1970-1971. 
We’ll see where the muse leads.