I’m back home again in the deerling woods. Six weeks of warmth and rain have changed forlorn that into wild-thing this. The air is hot and honeysuckle sweet, and soon I’ll spend whole days, whole months floating idly down the lazy river. I desperately want not to ache any longer.
Oh god, the possibilities are too terrible. I’m so full of dread. I can’t let go of my dreams and plans. I feel as though if I let go (or, most fearfully, am made to let go) I will float into a dark, painful oblivion where I cannot be happy and cannot die. I can already feel myself slipping toward that insufferable fate. Oh, god. Oh, whatever powers exist, please don’t let me go. I’m terrified.
“Can you feel, listening with trained ear to heartbeat of the other, the wind shrieking and gasping and singing … ? Such uncharted, wild barrens there are behind the calm or mischievous shell that has learned its name but not its destiny.”—Sylvia Plath
I took a gingerly step in the dark tonight and began an honest-to-goodness paper journal. Already my thoughts are blossoming, and my heavy heart is lightening. Old rusty dusty things are coming back to life. It’s time to resume work on becoming the scientist-artist-dreamer. “Treguna Mekoides Trecorum Satis Dee!”
My spirits are falling into the valley of the shadows. There may be a life for me yet worth living, but perhaps not - certainly not one that I can see. I have trouble accepting that mine may be a sad and lonely life after all, empty of the dreams we dreamt as children. Still, I do just faintly believe in them and in the upward curve at the end of sadness. That will have to do for now.
I’m spending some time in the Central Coast. I may not be truly happy, but for now I’m content to buy twinkling crystals, chase rainbows, let the sun fall on my shoulders, and eat fish & chips by the better of the great oceans.
“Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.”—Sylvia Plath
In the chilly Virginia dawn, I walked to the park where the mulberries grew. I picked them until my hands were stained dark purple and baked them into our apple crumble. I so wanted you to like it. That night when you took your first bite, you closed your eyes and after a long pause said, “Who do you think you are?” I have rarely felt so proud.
This morning I learned that my family has to leave our beautiful home in less than 30 days. Meanwhile, I’m on the other side of the world waiting for my own dreaded fate to come. I feel as though I’m watching helplessly while some bully shakes the precious contents of my dollhouse into the dirt. I told my mother, “when it rains, it pours” (cliches were made for moments like these), made us each a cup of tea, and then I’ll admit that I went outside and cried under the lemon tree. And that one pathetic little plea, “leave me alone,” floated unheard into the breeze. Blast.