Week 1: Part 3...She is you and you are her - so who am I?

Occasionally, I simply allow my mind to wonder. I write when the mood strikes and the moment is available for my hands to frantically record my thoughts, it could be while I’m stuck in road traffic on the back side of an envelope belonging to some random unpaid bill, while I’m at the park with the kids writing on the first available surface – usually my hand or my jeans, or while I have the rare luxury of sitting before my laptop…my point is, I like to write. I enjoy words, expressing feelings and taking pleasure in all our language has to offer. My problems are that I often find my thoughts blocked and it takes some extreme life altering event to unblock them (or some fun prompts from a cool teacher – see the brown on my nose). I also don’t know what to do with the things I write. Yes, I do it for enjoyment but like most of us we want to share it, have them published, do something that helps us feel that all the effort of getting it down is not in vain. Stacks of journals, papers, poems, stories can be found all around my home…I would like to learn how to take it to the next step.

You rest your eyes, breath in, breath out, you remember and you dream. You want to record your past, your history and that of family and ancestors. You dream of freezing time on tangible pages that will inspire future generations. It will arouse enthusiasm deep within their blood, igniting their inner passions, triggering their desire…their need to write, as it was done to you. Your rested eyes are rejuvenated, you leisurely open them and sadly before you great dark walls rise up, you see no ladders, no doors, no windows just darkness. A part of you understands they are not authentic, they are not true physical obstacles yet they do not fade, they do not wilt or wither or diminish in any significant way. You imagine climbing over them but they reach beyond the heavens, you envision plowing them down or creating a hole to dive through but they are strong and seemingly unbreakable. You visualize digging below them – a tunnel under, but your arms ache with each foot you dig down the walls seem to extend two feet more. You remain trapped - in a world with limited light, you succumb and continue your monotonous daily routines finding pleasure in any place it can be found. Straining to keep your sanity. Breathing in, breathing out, remembering and dreaming.

“Tess, take a look at this.” her Dad gently commands. He hands her a stack of papers, scribbled writing, almost unreadable ink smudges reside on the pages she takes from him. “Read it. Tell me what you think.” He asks her with cheerless, aged eyes. She knows the routine well – she has read his creations all her life, her dad’s work has inspired her since she was a child. As she begins to read her mind wonders back in time to the rare days her dad and she spent together during their visitations. She recalls his fun poetry written about her and her first fishing experiences, his folk style songs about her siblings and their family traditions and his stories…the sad, lonely stories he would tell – her only window into what his world was like - the world that was now ending for him. This realization jolts her back to the present and she reads on. His work is good, raw and real. Why was he not fading now known as a great writer and how can she give him hope so that he may move on in peace. She sets down his papers, takes his hands in hers and whispers sweet reassurances of his great works and accomplishments. He smiles. “Read your stuff to me now.” He requests. Hesitating, she sets down his hands, picks up her notebook and reads. He relaxes, she does too. He interrupts briefly to tell her how proud he is of her and how happy he is to know they share their love for writing. They both dreamily allow their minds to wonder into her story. They read into the late hours of the night until they are both overcome and finally sleep. She is awoken to a strange noise, a difference in his breathing, the rattling – gurgling sound. This is not her first loss and she recognizes the moment – it is his last. As he struggles through his transition she climbs up beside him in bed, cradles his head, moistens his face with her tears and sings to him. It is his song, one he had sang to her many times, a song to help her sleep, a song to help her through sad times, a song about love – that he wrote – that they shared….his words, her words. The noise stops, the transition is complete, the moment is final – it’s the words that bring her comfort, she prays the words brought comfort to him too, she owes the words and they owe her. She feels her path, she knows her path and maybe that will bring him peace.