Lost

5 Jul

California was dizzying. Experience after experience, so much happened that I don’t even know how to start. My flight of 3000 miles began two days after Tinker Mountain Writer’s workshop. The way I think about how I write and what might be appealing or readable has changed and I fell into days upon days of experience with no time to write by myself. Everything is shifting now that I am home. I find myself a little lost. I look back at this blog, this place of safety. All I have written, all this road I have walked. All I really want to do right now is sit down in the middle of the path and shout at the Universe ENOUGH ALREADY! Please, I’m tired. I need to sit. I’ve been swimming for so long I’ve forgotten what dry land feels like. I’m so very tired of being this “fabulous” person (at least that’s what everyone says to me) who is also alone. One of the men in my writer’s workshop questioned why I chose this solo path. His thought almost knocked me flat.

You think I chose this?

You think I began this journey by choice?

Traveling to California wasn’t a solo venture. My mother accompanied me to my Uncle’s home in El Dorado Hills. One of the first mornings there, I went on a run and Hootie’s Time caught me at the wrong moment. I ran and cried and cried and ran. I don’t understand sometimes why all this has happened, or what good it will do anyone. Even me. And I think what I am most afraid of is that there isn’t a purpose in it.

It just is.

And that I will keep wishing until the day I no longer can take a breath.

So I’m sitting down, in the middle of a pine forest path in my mind, a suppliant to the giant sequoia above me for some sign, some way to know…am I walking the right way? Where is my compass, my light? Where are my words? For the last three weeks I haven’t been able to write. I can’t begin.There is this pressure to just say everything all at once, but then again for what purpose? The stories are there for me.

Like when I went to the Vietnamese market and met a Buddhist Monk in front of it. He said to my Aunt Chi, 

“She has an American face, but I can see her. And you are Cambodian, and Thai, and Vietnamese”. My aunt didn’t understand.

But then, I told her, “He sees all your lives, Chi. He sees my energy. He knows I’m awake”.

Or when I went to Mariposa Grove and the trees begged my touch. Gentle giant trees loved me and I can’t explain how. But they did. They bore my weight. They let me touch them and they touched my spirit and my body in return.

The morning runs in the El Dorado Hills were healing all on their own, the music of my past carrying me onward, keeping my spirit buoyant in the crisp clear air. The plane rides…oh, the terror of airplane rides and time changes. Super Moon Sunday and the ghost town of Merced. The Crocker Art Museum and Old Sac. Salt water taffy and feather masks.

On a drive through Carmel by the Sea, I quoted Byron to my cousins and Uncle and Aunt, Roll on thou deep blue ocean. I must be quite strange to them. They all looked at the homes. I could only see the ocean. Tiny wineries of Amador where the red wine is so effortlessly wonderful. A small mermaid store in Placerville and the Cozmic Cafe.The faerie ring of cedars at Yosemite. Feeding the chipmunk at Tallac. The blue of the water of Emerald Bay. The Angel Loop Falls and most of all Vikingsholm. They all are a part of the fullness of who I am.

At Vikingsholm, I walked the halls, reminded of a time where I lived connected to a Tolkienesque way of living. I stood atop a granite mountain and let the wind blow freedom through me. But right now, sitting here typing this. I can’t feel it. And I can’t seem to write other than the simple frustrations of my heart.

In a few days, I will be off to Norfolk to a conference and then another music festival. The summer is flying and I haven’t begun to even think about how I will change this blog, this place for shitty first drafts, as my writing instructor told me. I haven’t begun to sort the MFA applications that I need to have completed before I return to the classroom. Or even the days I will need to move my classroom back into an old space, one I occupied ten years ago. My world is changing. . .

  I amar prestar aen.
The world is changed.
Han matho ne nen.
I feel it in the water.
Han mathon ned cae.
I feel it in the earth.
A han noston ned gwilith.
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

So, I’m sitting here in the forest still, on that pathway and trying to figure out where to write to next. The path somehow needs to re-appear.

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