I just finished reading the memoir manuscript for the first time. Even though it’s an incomplete first draft and it has so much work ahead of it, I feel like I could weep because it’s good. It’s really good. And, of course, it’s awful in places.
But really, the story and the arc and what’s happening is so real and true and amazing that I feel daunted and humbled by the progress. I realize that I’m really only about halfway through, but judging the distance until I’m finished doesn’t seem important right now. The important part is that I feel hopeful. I can do this, and this story is so important and worth telling. Isn’t that a miracle?
I miss you, Bunker. This one’s for you.
(Remind me to read this tomorrow when I’m thwacking my head on my desk.)
The magic comes
in the form of gifts
I don’t know how to accept.
A blue jay clings to my office window,
a remarkable feather lays in my path,
the writing comes so easily.
I take them, apologize,
forget to show gratitude
until it’s probably too late.
Then the silence arrives.
No birds. No words.
I worry the magic is angry.
Right when hope fades,
the magic reappears.
The bird always returns.
I was walking to my parked car the other day and looked up to see this red balloon stuck in a red tree. It looked so beautiful, and I thought, “There’s a story there.” The kid with her balloon after the birthday party, so outraged that with just one slip of her fingers, the tree took her balloon and wouldn’t give it back. Or perhaps she gave it to the tree, said, “Catch!” When she let go, the tree actually did what she asked it to. Maybe every time she walks by now, she smiles.
This picture is how I remember my childhood. I don’t know who this girl or dog is, but I’m struck by how deeply this photo reaches into me. I remember escaping into sleep, finding bliss in the rhythm of a dog’s heartbeat. Welcoming the bug crawling up my arm, honoring her curiosity. I lay in the fields near our house daydreaming about other places, other people who would love me, who would tell me I was okay and that I could be beautiful.
My little old soul of a dog, sitting in the sun, listening. What wisdom.