“Writing — has self-respect in it. You’re working. You’re trying. You’re not lying down on the ground, having given up. And one thing I love about writing is that we can speak to the absent, the dead, the estranged and the longed-for — all the people we’re separated from. We can see them again, understand them more, even say goodbye …” – Sharon Olds
Every word I wrote. Every.Fucking.Word was for you. Trying to draw us out through a hundred memories, trying to tell you a little something about my life. And yeah, I still think about that song. Hey, I even drank from the fountain and you know something? It tasted like an anchor, all salt and metal and something heavy in my throat. Safety nearly sank us both in the end, how about that? I went to a temple (me, I know!) and that is what I heard. Something assured in the banging drums and incensed air, like a hand that settled on my lowered head. It told me that it was only safety that could hold me back, that it was security that would drown me. I knew this hand from its place at my back, the one I trusted a lifetime ago – and I cried another river right there. To think of just how close I came (to someone else’s idea of fine).
Every word I wrote. Every.Fucking.Word was for you.
Eidyia’s Note: Truth is, I don’t even remember writing this. But it remains no less true for my forgetfulness. Sometimes your life becomes the story. Or the story becomes your life. Visiting that temple in Vietnam was a turning point for both …