Words from past journals seem to be the transport through which I am moving through time. I skim pages through a time-space continuum. As I craft a piece (known hereto as “The Submission“) from an era when I was 23, I find new insights, discover little gems.
In 1996 life’s proverbial road gave me one of those sharp arrowed signs, so abrupt I almost missed the turn. My trajectory was swiftly skewed with an unexpected surgery that removed an ovary from my womb and deeply scared my heart.
Until that detour, I’d been gearing for flight to Hawaii. In a sudden shift, I was shuffling at a snail’s pace in suburbia.
Healing stitches at my childhood home, I sorted old boxes. Took slow walks at the doctor’s suggestion. Wrote letters to the Poet in Massachusetts. Full of sweetness and incredible artistry, the Poet was the kind of guy that would send me typewriter pages of exquisite verse enclosed in a hand-painted envelope he’d crafted himself. Sometimes wildflowers or butterfly wings would fall out of the folds.
Having just left a year of living in the woods of Vermont, I was out of my element on old turf. I was adjusting to both neighborhood living and my body’s molasses pace. I took solace in the presence of the Poet, even when he was 3000 miles away.
October 24, 1996
leaving cardboard boxes taped and labeled hefty black trash bags strings drawn and taut
I stepped into the night air black and blue and California cool the sky had her jewels (though lots were moving men) and I searched to find the crescent
instantly I thought of you so we walked together you and I
through manicured lawns of suburbia my pace was slow we took our time and the breeze rustled the tree leaves cul de sacs led to no where they rounded out our time but we were in no hurry watching headlights speeding by (and above)
alone in my old neighborhood surrounded in cemented sidewalks with love and love and love