“The journey itself is my home.”
– Bashō Matsuo
I spent so long writing my memoir I didn’t realize how much of the present moment I was missing. After each draft the editor said, “Go deeper.” Those two words took another year of work and an emotional and physical toll that went beyond words. After six years I knew the book was done, and I knew I was done with my past.
I put my manuscript in a virtual drawer in a file on my desktop where it waits for its release.
In the meantime, I search in my heart for the good memories of my youth. Images of a baton twirling, tap dancing, poetry writing, Sting-Ray bike riding, paint-by-numbers girl fill my dreams. On my bedside table were turtles in their tropical paradise, ants digging tunnels in their glassed-in ant farm, and a long-haired plastic troll collection with their soothing smiles watching over me. There was the girl who played flute, sang in the school choir, had a crush on Davy Jones of the Monkees, and always knew music would be her refuge. There were the sleep-overs, the corsages lined with bubble gum and pennies, the Duncan Hines chocolate cakes. There were the Chihuahuas, the heady scent of lily of the valley in the garden, and the blessing of a circle of friends…
I’m often asked if writing my memoir was cathartic. I’m not sure. I only know I’d been running from my past for too long and by facing it I no longer have anything to hide or protect.
What is cleansing now is letting myself live a new story, one filled with forgiveness and love. A story where I go deeper into the present moment and listen to my breath. A story written with invisible ink.
As Thich Nhat Hahn said, “Your true home is in the here and the now.”
