and I don’t regret the mistakes love I’ve made …

Jacqueline Bublitz Image

Eidyia’s Note: A very Happy End of 2013 and beginning of a New Year to my fellow readers, writers, lovers (and leavers) at body, remember. Here’s what I have come to understand this year. It takes as long as it takes. But you get there. Eventually. Embrace those mis-takes for what they teach you. And never, ever regret the love you made xxx


I can’t say when I am first aware of her.  When she stands out from the crush of people I navigate every morning on the way to work. Perhaps it is when I return to a five-day week, when I heal enough to attempt a routine. Once you notice someone, you can’t remember when you didn’t. It is this way with her. With the woman who stares at me from over the coffee she tentatively sips each morning. Always the slight grimace with the first taste, an odd little reaction when others seem to sigh into their first hit of the day. Maybe this is what I notice first, the way she drinks her coffee. And then, of course, the way she stares, the way she smiles and looks away too fast. How can you tell if a smile meets the eyes, when the person looks away too soon?

It is clear that she knows who I am. People have no idea how unsubtle they are. The little nudges, the whispers that really aren’t. It is far easier to manage the strange boldness of those who come up to me directly, who say I saw you on the TV and make no secret of their agenda. These people, I can hold their gaze, or drop mine, as I let them stake their claim. I saw you on the TV, and – the story is different for each person who accosts me. Some want me to know what happened to them, some want to offer their god or advice. Others want to scold, and then offer god or advice.

But she does neither of these things. This woman with dark hair who watches me every morning, who bites her lip as she stares down at the table between us. Whoever this woman is, she is sad. A sadness like this – like ours – it announces itself on a person, it walks them into every room. I can see this ache, this unwanted companion of hers, right from the start. Before I know her name. Before I know Maggie Valentine. This woman who is weighed down by her sorrow, and, I will soon discover, her secrets.

That’s the other thing about people, Ben. They think if they don’t look – you won’t see. But at the same time there they are, desperately wanting to be found out. It’s obvious, once you know. Every one of us silently saying – Come on, look a little closer. Look a little closer at me. Please. Not even knowing that they’re asking. Not yet understanding that we only hide the things we most want someone to find.

When Maggie Valentine cries and tells me you were her friend, I am not surprised. I see her sadness and her secrets, and I know this is just the beginning of a story that has been waiting to be told.


My insightful little Lucy, the wounded philosopher of The Memory of Stars. Still working out if what she says makes any kind of sense …

The art of letting (go)

You don’t.

The accumulation, the little gatherings. You open your arms wider to them. You hold one more, and close.

You don’t.

Fingers and slipping. Everything that falls through – you never knew how. Always scooping up the love at your feet. Until it is back again, and overflowing.

You don’t let go.

You let.

You let everything stay.

Everything stays.

You remember she said there is always room – it just expands. And you are a chasm now. Wide, wide open, and reaching.

You remember.

She said.

You don’t let go.

(This heart. It holds every thing)

Image by Joanne Piechota

Image by Joanne Piechota

Start with your hands

From December 2012:

Start with your hands. I want you to place them here. And here. And here.  So much to discover if you take it slow, and I want you to take it slow. I want to feel the restraint (yours, not mine). I want to see the pulse in your tendon, the quick in your veins. I will tell you when it’s time to push bit to teeth, to run. I will tell you when to let go. I will throw open the gate and invite your release. But first, take it slow.

I know you’ve been here a thousand times before. But this. This is brand new. This is a revelation. This is an indoctrination. You have forgotten how to be surprised, and I will teach your body to remember. I want your body to remember. The very first, the shock of skin. The way that eyes flash and lock. I want your body to remember this.

So put your hands on me. Each finger tip holds a thousand stories. Dip them in ink and write me your history. Leave a trail of words that seep into my bones. I want to read what you have written there. I want to know where you have been, what you know. Tell me what you have to say, and what you have swallowed. Put your words into my mouth. Let me sing them back to you. I will be gentle with your song.

Start with your hands. All I want is this. And you. All I want is you.

Rock Bublitz portrait by Joanne Piechota

All that from an elevator ride. Yikes. Some volcanoes are merely sleeping …

Eidyia’s note: Keeping up my tradition of revisiting pieces a year later. Love what this little flight of fancy signified back then (a slow and sure waking for this writer). It also remains a valid reason as to why certain people should never read my stories 😉

This is what happened


I had a dream last night where I told her the truth. Out loud. Tongue against teeth, it snaked out from pressed lips, the sound escaping with the slowest release of air. As if I had been holding my breath for days.

This is what happened – and there it was. Such freedom in the words, the way I suddenly released all of our secrets from where they had so long been sitting. These sugared pills hidden under the tongue, and now spat out at her feet.

She stared in surprise – but just for a second. I felt a cloudless relief to say where I had been.

And as she took my hand, we saw nothing but sky.

^^ The epilogue to The Memory of Stars …