Book Club...Goodbye

Last night, my book club attended a reading given by Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of, "Eat, Pray, Love," at Vroman's Books in Pasadena. I know, you can imagine how long it took me to get there from my new location sans freeways. Once there, my club was there along with 50 other women (a huge, huge, number for any reading), and one lone man. It seemed all the women belonged to some book club, and I don't know why this is, but so many of them looked so familiar to me. Actually, I did spot two men among the hordes (an exaggeration) of women. The talk, rather than reading from the book, was reassuring to me because she was so human, much like her book. She doesn't profess or pretend to know anything other than what her experience has been. And like the rest of us, she has nary a clue as to what is coming around the bend. After the talk, we convened at a Thai restaurant in Pasadena. And there, we fell into a familiar pattern of discussing a multitude of topics, our thoughts and opinions shared so freely, weaving our way, finally, to the book.

I started this book club, some 7 years ago, after coming back to LA after finishing my graduate school. I started this club, selfishly, to gather with smart, book-loving, women to discuss "literature." And during these last 7 years, the club, its members, have morphed, all of it rather fluidly. I remember when I started it, I was a bit chagrined to tell people I had started a 'book club' since the idea of it seemed, and still does, a bit suburban housewifely--an association which, you all know, can make me apoplectic.

What I didn't realize 7 years ago, since my head was still at graduate school where thorough, and I mean, thorough discussions were required, was that this club, this sorority of women would provide a much needed foundation to my life. This club of smart, sympathetic women, helped me, individually, but collectively through some of my bleakest days. When my son was born, one member, who is a dear friend, hosted the evening at her place since I lived very close by, thereby insuring my participation. This gesture was like being handed a buoy after barely staying afloat for endless hours. These women, some mothers, some not, some married, some not, some white, some not, some older, some not, are some of the most interesting people I've met in my life. Yes, I did invite each of them, with the exception of one, but I take no credit for the chemistry of this club, the culmination of which ended up with the book club road tripping this past January. Each one, unique and individual, with a life experience that is as complicated as any of the books we've read, have held me up. And so, in my doggedness for intellectual stimulation, I got something far greater...friendship, empathy, sympathy, security. See, no matter how hard a month it had been, no matter how pissed-off I had been, no matter how sad I had been, this monthly meeting was the one constant where I knew I could go in my fragile, pissed-off, sad state, and be met with a calm understanding by each. Never did I feel the need to wear a mask of invincibility--yes, we all know I'm incapable of such a thing. I know I just posted that piece about chatter...this group was incapable of such pettiness. Not once, did I ever feel any of their judgment about the vicissitudes of a life that felt so awry to me, some of my complaints, I'm sure, ridiculous, the rantings of a spoiled brat.

Like most book clubs, this gathering of women was so rarely about the book, the book merely a backdrop for something far greater. It was at the various tables, where we sat together, that each of us learned something about ourselves, each other, but sometimes life itself. There was lots of wine consumed, so that my husband referred to the book club as the wino club. We, the club that is, never did come up with a clever moniker for our group. I'm relieved that we never did--nothing so cute as the Jane Austen Club or the Sylvia Plath Club, if we were a group of depressives--because it spoke to the diversity of our group being not so easily categorized.

We didn't really discuss that last night was my last with the club. It was too heartbreaking for me to say much beyond encouraging them to carry on, even if I was no longer here to drive the oxcart forward, as they say. Our table closed the restaurant, not a hard thing to do in LA, much less rocking Pasadena. Each of us hugged one another quickly, some saying that dreaded word, 'goodbye,' to me. Some merely hugging me. I woke up this morning with the weight of this loss on my chest. I sent them an email, again, encouraging them to continue reading together. I'm hoping they read this post, so they can understand what a heartbreak this is for me, and how much they have meant to my life here these last 7 years. Why I can't say that to them...well, writing for me is way I work out my stuff, where I feel the safest to lay myself bare, something I can't do in my every day life.

So, this post is a loving tribute to a group of 6 women, who have been the other pillar in this precarious house of mine. They were the graceful columns holding up the ramshackle, much spackled box, that was the place where I held my fears, hopes, dreams, whimsical craziness, the very essence of me, sheltered inside.