Small spaces
A couple months ago, I went to a poetry workshop offered for migrants by Vancouver Writers Fest, led by Evelyn Lau. We read, we laughed, we talked, we cried, but most importantly, within those four hours we created a bond, built a community and met others who, for one reason or another, shared at least two threads in common with me: being a writer and being a migrant.
Since last year, I've attended multiple creative writing workshops, but this one hit different. For the first time, I've found myself meeting some of the participants again a few days later, at another event. Then again, and again. And little by little, they have helped me cultivate a small space of belonging in a city that doesn't belong to me, and to which I don't belong either, not entirely.
Between verses and books and laughter and tears (and fingers snapping), I have found a breathing room, a subterfuge from the daily grind, to which I cling and in which I find a push, sometmes very much needed, to put my eyes on the sund beyond the grayest of the clouds.
So it seems that the pieces, little by little, end up falling into place.