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I started taking a writing class last night. We will meet every Tuesday until December and I have to admit, there is so much about the class itself Id like to write about it. The way it surprised me and the way nearly every person in it could be dead ringers for British celebrities and how we take breaks for tea and biscuits and also how every person in that class is a better writer than I am which makes me feel both very intimidated and excited.

But I will let that experience marinate for another day or two before I attempt to write about it and instead invite you to read a poem printed out and given to us by the instructor. It’s by Margaret Atwood, whose Handmaid’s Tale has been back in the spotlight for some time now. 

I cannot accurately convey how I felt reading this. On the one hand it sort of inflated me like a balloon. And in the other it reduced me to bone and bits. 

The entirety of it is a masterpiece, of course, but there were moments I had me to quietly take deeps breaths to keep from bursting into tears in my seat and crying into my teacup. That would have made quite the impression!

I’m happy to report I was able to maintain my composure.

And here is the poem.

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