Write Me A Poem<\/p>\n
I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to
keep and what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair\u00a0of deco bronze bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the\u00a0bindings were shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days.\u00a0I had forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took the them off the shelf and opened the first one.<\/p>\n
A light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined\u00a0page and the date I had written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That\u00a0was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that\u2019s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.<\/p>\n
I began to read, remembering people and places that I\u00a0thought had disappeared from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive\u00a0with a set amount of storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages\u00a0and the mental images began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the\u00a0mind has no measurable depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a\u00a0lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there\u00a0like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.<\/p>\n
As I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall\u00a0events had no limits as my words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was
brushing away cobwebs as I started entering my poems into the computer,\u00a0traveling back in time to the room where I\u2019d originally written them and to the\u00a0people I\u2019d written about. When I got over judging my writing as good or bad, it\u00a0became an astonishing journey to travel along the arcs of my experience. And it\u00a0was just as astonishing when I drew a blank about a time or place or person who\u00a0had inspired me to write that particular poem. It was like staring at an old\u00a0photograph, unable to identify someone who\u2019s standing next to you.<\/p>\n
I had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The\u00a0upcoming material was focused on a terrible relationship I had endured. I
nearly closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I didn\u2019t want to think\u00a0about it. But I took a breath, I kept reading and I allowed myself to feel the\u00a0gamut of emotions that came up. Fear. Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of\u00a0that time and it was no surprise that my writings reflected despair and\u00a0hopelessness. But what got my attention were the poems in which I sounded\u00a0happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good times amid the\u00a0sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else would I have been
there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable and getting out\u00a0sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have saved me from a\u00a0world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was good about that\u00a0tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.<\/p>\n
As I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was\u00a0betraying myself to recall happy times in a relationship that caused me so much\u00a0angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and\u00a0there, I might give myself a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel\u00a0the same depth of disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was\u00a0deeply wounded during that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever\u00a0completely heal from it. But it couldn\u2019t have been all bad because I had\u00a0written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had\u00a0knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good friends. I had laughed and
danced and told my stories.<\/p>\n
I don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I\u2019m not\u00a0that pure or saintly and I\u2019ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness,
like \u201cForgive and forget.\u201d I won\u2019t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But\u00a0I believe that recalling what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid\u00a0step toward forgiving myself for staying too long at the fair.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s popular to throw our feelings away and say, \u201cI have no regrets.\u201d
I don\u2019t buy it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who\u00a0probably isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they\u00a0don\u2019t know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along\u00a0with what didn\u2019t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all\u00a0sides of something is the road to healing and I\u2019m grateful that my urge to\u00a0write poems and then review them five decades later with no judgments is one
more testament to the value of filling up the blank page.<\/p>\n
Writing can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious\u00a0experience. Since I\u2019ve learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all\u00a0writers to keep their work whether they think it\u2019s good or bad. That really has\u00a0nothing to do with it in the long run. What matters is the information their words\u00a0carry and the healing power that arises when we let go of the one-sided memories\u00a0and acknowledge the whole truth.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Write Me A Poem<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to
keep and what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair
of deco bronze bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the
bindings were shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days.
I had forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the
shelf and opened the first one.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
A light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined
page and the date I had written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That
was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that\u2019s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I began to read, remembering people and places that I
thought had disappeared from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive
with a set amount of storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages
and the mental images began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the
mind has no measurable depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a
lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there
like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall
events had no limits as my words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was
brushing away cobwebs as I started entering my poems into the computer,
traveling back in time to the room where I\u2019d originally written them and to the
people I\u2019d written about. When I got over judging my writing as good or bad, it
became an astonishing journey to travel along the arcs of my experience. And it
was just as astonishing when I drew a blank about a time or place or person who
had inspired me to write that particular poem. It was like staring at an old
photograph, unable to identify someone who\u2019s standing next to you.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The
upcoming material was focused on a terrible relationship I had endured. I
nearly closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I didn\u2019t want to think
about it. But I took a breath, I kept reading and I allowed myself to feel the
gamut of emotions that came up. Fear. Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of
that time and it was no surprise that my writings reflected despair and
hopelessness. But what got my attention were the poems in which I sounded
happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good times amid the
sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else would I have been
there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable and getting out
sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have saved me from a
world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was good about that
tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was
betraying myself to recall happy times in a relationship that caused me so much
angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and
there, I might give myself a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel
the same depth of disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was
deeply wounded during that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever
completely heal from it. But it couldn\u2019t have been all bad because I had
written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had
knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good friends. I had laughed and
danced and told my stories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I\u2019m not
that pure or saintly and I\u2019ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness,
like \u201cForgive and forget.\u201d I won\u2019t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But
I believe that recalling what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid
step toward forgiving myself for staying too long at the fair.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
It\u2019s popular to throw our feelings away and say, \u201cI have no regrets.\u201d
I don\u2019t buy it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who
probably isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they
don\u2019t know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along
with what didn\u2019t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all
sides of something is the road to healing and I\u2019m grateful that my urge to
write poems and then review them five decades later with no judgments is one
more testament to the value of filling up the blank page.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Writing can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious
experience. Since I\u2019ve learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all
writers to keep their work whether they think it\u2019s good or bad. That really has
nothing to do with it in the long run. What matters is the information they
carry and the healing power that arises when we let go of the one-sided memories
and acknowledge the whole truth.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Write Me A Poem<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and
what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze
bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were
shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had
forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf
and opened the first one.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
A light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the
date I had written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that\u2019s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I began to read, remembering people and places that I thought had
disappeared from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set
amount of storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental
images began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable
depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps
forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping
Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no
limits as my words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away
cobwebs as I started entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in
time to the room where I\u2019d originally written them and to the people I\u2019d written
about. When I got over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing
journey to travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as
astonishing when I drew a blank about a time or place or person who had
inspired me to write that particular poem. It was like staring at an old
photograph, unable to identify someone who\u2019s standing next to you.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material
was focused on a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and
put it back on the shelf. I didn\u2019t want to think about it. But I took a breath,
I kept reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up.
Fear. Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no
surprise that my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my
attention were the poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover
that there had been good times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had
felt love. Why else would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life
had gotten unbearable and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good
idea. It would have saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I
had rejected what was good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to
rethink my memories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying
myself to recall happy times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and
sorrow. But maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and there, I might
give myself a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth
of disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during
that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But
it couldn\u2019t have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made
beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had
spent time with good friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I\u2019m not that pure
or saintly and I\u2019ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like \u201cForgive
and forget.\u201d I won\u2019t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that
recalling what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward
forgiving myself for staying too long at the fair.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
It\u2019s popular to throw our feelings away and say, \u201cI have no
regrets.\u201d I don\u2019t buy it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you
someone who probably isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so
skillfully, they don\u2019t know that they even had them. In my case, remembering
what worked along with what didn\u2019t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my
experience, seeing all sides of something is the road to healing and I\u2019m
grateful that my urge to write poems and then review them five decades later with
no judgments is one more testament to the value of filling up the blank page.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Writing can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious
experience. Since I\u2019ve learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all
writers to keep their work whether they think it\u2019s good or bad. That really has
nothing to do with it in the long run. What matters is the information they
carry and the healing power that arises when we let go of the one-sided memories
and acknowledge the whole truth.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Write Me A
Poem<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I
was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and what to give
away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze
bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were
shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had
forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf
and opened the first one.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
A
light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had
written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that\u2019s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I
began to read, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared
from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of
storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images
began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable
depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps
forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping
Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As
I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my
words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away cobwebs as I
started entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room
where I\u2019d originally written them and to the people I\u2019d written about. When I
got over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to
travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I
drew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that
particular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify
someone who\u2019s standing next to you.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I
had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused
on a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and put it back
on the shelf. I didn\u2019t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept
reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear.
Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that
my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the
poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good
times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else
would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable
and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have
saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was
good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As
I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall
happy times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But
maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself
a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of
disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during
that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But
it couldn\u2019t have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made
beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had
spent time with good friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I
don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I\u2019m not that pure or saintly and
I\u2019ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like \u201cForgive and forget.\u201d
I won\u2019t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling
what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving
myself for staying too long at the fair.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
It\u2019s
popular to throw our feelings away and say, \u201cI have no regrets.\u201d I don\u2019t buy
it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably
isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don\u2019t
know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what
didn\u2019t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of
something is the road to healing and I\u2019m grateful that my urge to write poems and
then review them five decades later with no judgments is one more testament to
the value of filling up the blank page.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Writing
can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I\u2019ve
learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work
whether they think it\u2019s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in
the long run. What matters is the information they carry and the healing power that
arises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Write Me A Poem<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I was
scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and what to give away,
when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze bookends of
nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were shredded and the
Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had forgotten about them
and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf and opened the first
one.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
A light
colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had
written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that\u2019s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I began to
read, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared from my memory.
I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of storage space, but
as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images began to take form,
I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable depth capacity.
Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not
extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting
to be awakened.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As I read
on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my words triggered
ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away cobwebs as I started
entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room where
I\u2019d originally written them and to the people I\u2019d written about. When I got
over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to
travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I
drew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that
particular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify
someone who\u2019s standing next to you.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I had read
about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused on
a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and put it back
on the shelf. I didn\u2019t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept
reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear.
Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that
my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the
poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good
times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else
would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable
and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have
saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was
good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
As I read
the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall happy
times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I
could relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself a break for
not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of disappointment for
not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during that period and I
don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But it couldn\u2019t
have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags
and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good
friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I don’t
feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I\u2019m not that pure or saintly and I\u2019ve
heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like \u201cForgive and forget.\u201d I
won\u2019t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling what
made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving myself
for staying too long at the fair.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
It\u2019s
popular to throw our feelings away and say, \u201cI have no regrets.\u201d I don\u2019t buy
it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably
isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don\u2019t
know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what
didn\u2019t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of
something is the road to healing and I\u2019m grateful that my urge to write poems and
then review them five decades later with no judgments is one more testament to
the value of filling up the blank page.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Writing can
be a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I\u2019ve learned
so much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work
whether they think it\u2019s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in
the long run. What matters is the information they carry and the healing power that
arises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Write Me A Poem<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I was
\nscanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and what to give away,
\nwhen I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze bookends of
\nnude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were shredded and the
\nChinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had forgotten about them
\nand I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf and opened the first
\none.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
A light \u00a0<\/p>\n I began to \u00a0<\/p>\n As I read \u00a0<\/p>\n I had read \u00a0<\/p>\n As I read \u00a0<\/p>\n I don’t \u00a0<\/p>\n It\u2019s \u00a0<\/p>\n Writing can \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Write Me A Poem I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what tokeep and what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair\u00a0of deco bronze bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the\u00a0bindings were shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days.\u00a0I had forgotten […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":2159,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2160","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2160","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2160"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2160\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2161,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2160\/revisions\/2161"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2159"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2160"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2160"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2160"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\ncolored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had
\nwritten on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd<\/sup> birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that\u2019s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.<\/p>\n
\nread, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared from my memory.
\nI had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of storage space, but
\nas I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images began to take form,
\nI realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable depth capacity.
\nIdeas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not
\nextinguished because they are always there like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting
\nto be awakened.<\/p>\n
\non, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my words triggered
\nancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away cobwebs as I started
\nentering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room where
\nI\u2019d originally written them and to the people I\u2019d written about. When I got
\nover judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to
\ntravel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I
\ndrew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that
\nparticular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify
\nsomeone who\u2019s standing next to you.<\/p>\n
\nabout fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused on
\na terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and put it back
\non the shelf. I didn\u2019t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept
\nreading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear.
\nGuilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that
\nmy writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the
\npoems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good
\ntimes amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else
\nwould I have been there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable
\nand getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have
\nsaved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was
\ngood about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.<\/p>\n
\nthe pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall happy
\ntimes in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I
\ncould relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself a break for
\nnot having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of disappointment for
\nnot taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during that period and I
\ndon’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But it couldn\u2019t
\nhave been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags
\nand script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good
\nfriends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.<\/p>\n
\nfeel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I\u2019m not that pure or saintly and I\u2019ve
\nheard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like \u201cForgive and forget.\u201d I
\nwon\u2019t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling what
\nmade me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving myself
\nfor staying too long at the fair.<\/p>\n
\npopular to throw our feelings away and say, \u201cI have no regrets.\u201d I don\u2019t buy
\nit. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably
\nisn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don\u2019t
\nknow that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what
\ndidn\u2019t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of
\nsomething is the road to healing and I\u2019m grateful that my urge to write poems and
\nthen review them five decades later with no judgments is one more testament to
\nthe value of filling up the blank page.<\/p>\n
\nbe a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I\u2019ve learned
\nso much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work
\nwhether they think it\u2019s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in
\nthe long run. What matters is the information they carry and the healing power that
\narises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.<\/p>\n