Journals…
…A Journey of Death
By
Ann Wilmer-Lasky
I
found an old notebook with some journal entries from 1988. I'm writing this in
that notebook now, while sitting in a lounge chair in my backyard, watching the
Great Tailed Grackles rummage for pecans. Gorgeous, raucous birds. The sleek
black males look majestic even, walking among the blades of grass where the nuts
have fallen, although, since the gods saw fit to put their tails on sideways,
they fly clumsily and not very far.
But
back to sitting outside. The sun is out and its rays are warm, but I'm covered
with a fleece blanket because it's colder than a well digger's ass out here.
I'm going to miss communing with Earth Mother and Sky Father. The winters are
not so forgiving here as they were in southern California. Lately, I regret
moving to Roswell since my husband has been unable to find work here. But we couldn't
have made it in California either. The cost of living is obscene there.
Back
to sitting outside again. I write well when I am drenched in nature. The
freshness of the air, the warmth of the sun, the sky, the clouds, the birds,
the trees - life. They are important to me. They bring their freshness to my thoughts
and my words.
Back
to this notebook. What I wrote in 1988 never came to fruition. I have not seen
the words and notes written here in twenty-five years. Perhaps if I had periodically
reviewed my journal, I would have better stayed on track. But as it is, I have
failed miserably in my stated purpose in life. A purpose then not totally
beyond my grasp - but, out of sight - soon out of mind and the daily drudge of
making a living took over.
Well,
I made a living, and it is now mostly gone. I did not make a life or pile up
happy memories against my dotage. I just pretty much used everything up.
Now
I am left with regrets and little time or chance of renewing my purpose. As I
half-heartedly yell at my dachshunds for digging holes in my yard (that is what
dachshunds do), I take a deep breath (made easier with the medications I now
take) and let out an audible sigh. What a waste.
Being
the Virginia Woolf type person that I am, I mainly recall the depths of my
existence. My husband surely deserved better.
My
advice (to sum up my ramblings for today):
Keep a Journal
Write in it frequently
Date your entries.
Occasionally read what you have
written.
Don’t let 25 years slip by only to
discover your purpose lies unfulfilled.
(In other words don't be like me.)
My
original journal entry will be the subject of another blog and will be appended
there. My poem of the moment follows. Mortal Winter - the fifth in a new
collection which will be published at or before my death, depending on how long
I have left. It is a plea - don't do as I have not done. Keep the promises you
make to yourself.
Mortal Winter
By Ann
Wilmer-Lasky
The chill upon my skin
Sinks deeply in my bones.
My soul shivers and my
Tears turn to ice upon
My cheeks. I wipe my nose,
Toss tissue in the trash,
Lament the life that lies,
Nestled in dregs and waste.
I shall yet dive under
Covers, bury my head
In the forgetfulness
Of tortured sleep and dreams.
But I shall not rise on
The morrow to fight yet
Another fight - tilt at
Windmills, curse the sadness.
I only rise to curse
The rising and the short
Unsweetness of what life
I have left. Scant time to
Undo the little that
I've done and not done well,
Scant consolation in
The certain knowing that
I shall not die today.
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