One

15 Mar
Hanging next to my table (3/11/) in the midst of writer's block ~ "Faith Like a Child" @ The Muse Coffee Company, Lynchburg VA

Hanging next to my table (3/11/) in the midst of writer’s block ~ “Faith Like a Child” @ The Muse Coffee Company, Lynchburg VA

I am tired, Beloved,
of chafing my heart against
the want of you;
of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it. — Amy Lowell

Tuesday Morning (3/12): 5:15 am — I wake this morning to the sound of rain on a tin roof, reminded of a tiny yellow house….warm pile of green covers on a bed built for two, Clar curled into a warm knot down the curve of my side. Walking out into misty drops, among puddles and ducks I make my way toward a coffee shop and a blank page, steamer squeals and the airy sweet pillow on the top of my cup…a cursor blinks in anticipation, excited for curious thoughts. I’m walking out of a dream. Feels like I should be walking into one. . .

This week reminded me of why I began to write again. Of what was found within me on the island. I’ve been missing Annie for weeks and every time I go to write, I feel blocked; it’s an effort. In editing out all the “I”s, the voice becomes muted, my confidence in the experience and in my writing wanes. In my attempt to walk the middle line of personal story blended with the road, I have forgotten that the personal is what is essential to the core of writing. There would be no story without Beloved. For she is the voice that would wake me every morning in word dreams and let me know where to go on this writing path. It’s been weeks since I have heard her voice. Sleep beyond six hours and 5am is necessary. Before the diagnoses start flying, let me state that Beloved is indeed my inner writer’s voice. I am not crazy; that I have named it is ancillary. She is, though, the part that sought expression while I was walking the empty streets and sands of Ocracoke. She was the one who woke me every morning there with a phrase. . .a word or a thought to begin the writing of the day. The pieces that are posted here from Ocracoke? They aren’t the originals.****** That time for me was so raw that to offer those to public view would be foolish. Only my closest friends saw those moments. Only they know the truest voice of Beloved. She was the one who saved me and the one for whom I must now care. In coming to know her, I found my writing again and founded this blog which hardly anyone reads, most likely because it isn’t easy to read. It isn’t convenient or quick. It’s crafted and meticulous, the words dense and thoughts deep which translates into conscious terms as B.O.R.I.N.G. But I refuse to pander Beloved to a fifteen second world, to the type of self publishing with three lines and a gorgeous dreamy picture. I’ve read other travel blogs.

Okay. . .
I give up
. . .sigh. . .
deep breath
. . .this isn’t a travel blog.

Beloved has a lot to say and I lose her sometimes and the writing becomes hard. I lose her when I move past honest open, often painful thoughts and move toward what I think others want to read. I lose her magical depth and wisdom. I can’t afford to lose her anymore. Soon, I will have to completely part with someone in my life. It will be difficult. But like any parasite, the most painful part is the detachment. Final healing will come by degree. But I am grateful for the relationship even though it mostly brought me pain and discomfort. It unearthed Beloved. In pain, Joe says, we find our truest selves.

About a month ago I received a very cryptic Facebook message from a young person I didn’t know inquiring about my identity. Usually, I ignore such requests, but then this week another message came. . . I’m interested in knowing more about something you said to one of my friends about an inner voice…I think we have similar views about spirituality. It was a student who had learned that I had mentioned “Beloved” in class context. Since then, we have met in my classroom, and in telling him about this inner consciousness, this voice, I remembered why I know about mine at all.

I boarded a ferry

I made a night journey to a deserted island.

I crossed the threshold into an unfamiliar world and laid myself bare to the elements and to pain.

In that disintegration came a new path…an authentic path.

For as much as I am a wayfarer, a writer, a teacher, a storyteller, a lover of arts…I am also Beloved.

I am one.

I am not just a wayfarin lass adrift in a sea of experience. I have friends, a mother and grandmother, a dog, three cats, and over two thousand people that have walked in and out of my classroom. I meet people everyday in traveling and it is time they were more a part of all of this.

I want not to be alone so much anymore.

There, I said it.

In the fierce attempt at showing the world, that indeed I can do anything I want, whenever I want, all alone…I forgot. The Universe gave me another gift: connection. I need others in my life. I need their love and their kindness and more importantly they need mine. That young lad who spoke with me caught a glimpse of an adult who was open enough to mention the deeper self, like a half visible whisp of cloud caught in the corner of the eye. He needed confirmation of what he felt within, his own beloved voice. In my wanderings, I cannot forget that others need me as much as I need them. Balancing this journey on a road that is shared is a turn in the path, I want to share it now with my friends, my family, with Beloved but also with you.

***** The original blog posts from Ocracoke have been edited into this body of work in March of 2017. The best writing, IS personal. It took me four years to figure that out.

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