(Written winter in Korea)
Yesterday was the first snow of the year.
We all ran to the window
Full of excitement
It comes every year.
Yet we meet it with astonishment every time.
As though we’ve never seen it.
If only we met more with the same eyes.
New, exciting, fresh.
Maybe life would be richer.
If we treated them as we do
The first snow.
I am here on this earth
Using up air
For what purpose
We are all given roughly the same amount
But we all do different things
With our breath
And sometimes we
Anything but breathe
On the way to Louisiana, possibly in the town called Epps, there was an old abandoned barn with airplanes inside. Driving by it once or twice a year for a decade will imprint it in your mind. Especially when you have nothing else. This was before smartphones see. So I watched the scenery and made up stories. About myself, leaping along the telephone wires or about that barn and the sad old lonely woman who lived there.
I was about fourteen, I think. Somewhere in those really awkward years between childhood and almost womanhood. For some reason I wanted people to feel sorry for this woman who was old and poor and lived in a barn with old airplanes. I thought people were really mean and would abandon her, and through my story they would be compassionate. It was also some kind of atonement for my own indifference. I too had heard the stories of kids who were young and had created businesses that helped poor people. I had the acquired guilt of being too young to make change on my own and no idea of how to organize any effort outside myself.
I saw my apathy as an indictment, instead of affliction. I still don’t know what it was. That’s why I go to therapy. To rid me of old barns and old women.
My room nineteen is a space in my head. I go there. Or it is my writing practice, which I will not show to anyone. I give only bits and pieces and the dark spirit of the thing is kept hidden, a retreat from the world.
I would like people to
understand me but I will never show them my interior. We dreamers and dark souls appear as angels but
only our demeanor is. Beneath the kindness lies a demon.
I read that story and was afraid.
Afraid I saw myself
Afraid I saw my future
Afraid I saw my children motherless
Afraid I saw my husband widowed
Afraid is all I’ve ever been
But comforted when someone writes a story about you across time and space.
1.0 You are (not) alone.