I looked for the journal entry until I had to stop last night  because of a heart willing itself to stop if I did not.  My eldest son as well as a beloved friend once called my persevering tendency  unnerving.  Both vowed they could not live my way.  I learned much later to call it the jenny genes.  I make myself sick with them.

This morning in picking up clutter I looked askance at a first hand written journal to open on July 23, ’73.  With Hello!!  I read the following in firm 42 year  old  handwriting in ink. . . .Our pianist sons were playing a new LP of the Canon when I first heard it.  Later in Munich,  at a travel conference we stood at Christmastime alight with old decorations in a nightime fairyland.  I realized it was not a first time for me.
I wrote. . . .

I hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and I yearn for a time I can see in my head.  I am there in my hooped dress with cinched waist and I can see a swarthy looking, paunchy violinist (forgive me) bending close to the dancers.  There is an ensemble  but the violinist I can see expressly.  Where is this taking place that it can move me to tears?

It’s not so much memory but participation, complete with all the emotion.  Why does this move me so and why does it have power as if I am in it now?  Who was I and where was I and where am I traveling now when I hear it?  No past or future, just eternal now?. . . .

The rest  of the entry deals with various elements of time and intensity and psychic talents.  Rich stuffs in explanation but having been clueless to this aspect with no one in my immediate circle versed in these subjects .  If family has no knowledge or the subject taboo, where does the child go who only knows to be called weird or different?  Ahhh you wondered why I obsess on this subject?

I still look for the  date on which the following poem was written.  The Europe business trips  were in the ‘70’s.  I posted this once in 2015 and a reader was overwhelmed with did it happen this way?  Exactly.

I hope when one does not fit the outlines for normality, one will be given space for being unique with a welcome to this world.  We all might learn something.  Parents and siblings especially.

 

December Confirms The June Woman

It is June and I stand poised  on the landing of the half circular staircase.
I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime.
Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and
yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories, I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music
which carried her down the long hall.  She curtsies to the throngs
lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving.  Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness
in my heart.  The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify 
in a mass in my throat.  I cannot swallow.  I am in danger
from within and without.

                                                   II  

It is now December.  I am before an ancient building in a city
bearing her years gracefully.   The snow is circling my feet and the wind
is freezing my eyes. I am rooted to this spot.  The air is ringing  with
the sounds of holiday;  lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony.
Yet  I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter of my memories,
I see the long hall stretching before me.  The strain and refrains of the Canon
carry the young one still, waltzing yet.  The violins smooth the way for her
memories  to be built  The red vests of the rotund violinists complement  
in contrast their black , slicked hair.  They bend and bow in homage.  
Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are again in danger, this time of freezing in their sockets with the
salted tears that cannot stop.  The memory does not move, not to one side nor 
the other.  My will forces my eyes  to play again what can only be seen in my
throbbing head.  Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden.
I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect, I was ready.  It was my time.  I turned away shaken and knowing,

                               the past is still happening.