Now I become myself. It's taken time, many years and places...
- May Sarton
WITH THAT MOON LANGUAGE
Admit something:
Everyone you see, you say to them,
"Love me."
Of course you do not do this out loud;
Otherwise,
Someone would call the cops.
Still though, think about this,
This great pull in us
To connect.
Why not become the one
Who lives with a full moon in each eye
That is always saying,
With that sweet moon
Language,
What every other eye in this world
Is dying to
Hear.
*love rock from dancing mermaid
Les and Mae, 1946
If these walls could talk
they would speak of vivid moments
of drowned worries and over-leveraged resilience.
They met in England during World War II.
He, a dashing American soldier,
She, a vivacious redhead British bombshell.
She left her fiance, her family, her country and
her wartime job in munitions earning more than her father,
to begin a life in California with the American equestrian.
She was afraid of horses.
The turning of the key would unlock
prescription-strength hopefulness
and unnameable overturned cathedrals
where childhood warriors came out to play.
They married in England in 1945
after an argument the night before:
She was certain the groomsman with the glass eye
would ruin their wedding pictures.
Her long white gown had been worn by four wartime brides before her
and was booked for its next gig mere hours later.
She packed the white silk blouses
lovingly sewn by her mother out of tattered parachutes.
Along with a few favorite piano songbooks
she boarded the basement of a ship
for over a week of seasick anticipation.
Arriving first in New York
then traveling by bus to meet her new husband on the west coast.
Fresh polished photographs advertise adventure.
Pale fire born with sunlight.
In the kitchen lemon meringue slices of pure joy outlast time.
Though they had little money
He gifted her with a piano and
She bought him a Quarterhorse.
Soon with newlywed excitement they built the house they would live in forever.
Home movies show a long wished for baby,
adopted three days after his birth.
There were horses, dogs, cats, ducks and chickens.
A barn to build and fences to post.
A roaring fire in the winter mornings and at dusk,
so blustering that at times the flames had to be stomped out of the carpet.
Piano music and her singsong voice.
Tea at four and rack of lamb for dinner.
True homes are a kaleidoscope of emotions,
loss reverberates through time
and the parameters of grief are wide and careless.
A car accident took their only child as a teenager.
She bravely felt that pain as it surfaced and resurfaced,
long after people expected her to move on.
She refused to pretend.
I think I loved this about her most of all.
Their marriage endured.
They traveled and laughed again and drank vodka tonics with dinner.
They experienced the difficulties that harshly accompany growing old.
They were a comfort to one another,
and I would imagine a pain in one another's ass sometimes too.
But I was there at the end,
I saw how they fell asleep, hands entwined, sixty four years later.
I noticed how they left this world only days apart.
Whistling echoes of the dented aluminum tea kettle
now belong to the archive of crowded remembrance.
The barn recounts its own story of
long passed youth and inexperience.
My eyes close to the fragrance of fading honeysuckle
and the threaded texture of decades past.
My song is a noble farewell.
On the typewritten page:
this is the story of a charming girl
she laughs out loud, sings off key and believes in taking chances
she is quick and curious and playful and strong
she lets her imagination run away with her
she has never been one to stick to convention
she is fond of daydreams that take her places
she can order a cocktail in six different languages
she feels that understated is overrated
"I don't really want to become normal, average, standard. I want to merely gain in strength, in the courage to live out my life more fully, enjoy more, experience more. I want to develop even more original and more unconventional traits." Anais Nin (The Diary of Anais Nin, Volume I)
Anais Nin's ashes are scattered outside my front window over Santa Monica Bay. Many days I've asked for a wisp of her courage and inhaled the remnants of her boldness stirring within the salty breeze. Her quotes first found their way into my journal as a teenager before I really knew her work. As I read through her diaries today, what continues to inspire me is her steadfast devotion to finding her own truth. And then living it. oh yeah, that part...
That is what this blog is for me. A place to live my truth. To share what delights my heart, inspires me and challenges me. To give breath to long held wishes. A place where I can reveal that the 10 year old girl inside of me still dreams of being a writer. She still thinks about the feel of dried paint on her fingers and longs to make a mess without worrying about the outcome. She fondly remembers spending the afternoon at her mother's old black Singer with a bolt of rainbow striped fabric and three chocolate chip cookies. It still sounds like a pretty good idea.
Saturday, March 12, 2011