A sanctuary moment. . .
In looking back the words I hear in closing the front door are, be careful what you say. That was from the time I have memory forming words, being told in essence to stop talking . Even now, this late in the day I am told to stop and listen. Yet the feeling persists that I will reveal something that is untenable, unable to be viewed.
If not allowed to speak, I will implode. I have no malice aforethought nor a desire to break someone’s rice bowl from which he eats. I may enhance his knowledge or broaden his outlook, but my conclusion is the outlook is too narrow still, and needs broadening.
The feeling I pick up is that I will either embarrass or demand effort the other cannot meet. Am I right? And I will be wrong or misguided or even stupid. As long as no work is demanded that they change their belief systems I can be called anything. And I excerpt the following from my journals.
Because most of my circle relate only from who they are when they see themselves in the mirror in the morning. No matter where their night has taken them, nor what they perceive in the rare moment when life becomes other than what they have known the moment before, they dismiss that, discount it and say bizarre and finally deny it ever happened, and never realize it was their sanctuary moment given to rescue them from drowning.
And this is what a sanctuary moment is, isn’t it? Now in brief I will tell you what leads me here and why I need time in conference. . .
When I was going to the doctor and waiting for Jennifer to pick me up, I picked up my two self published books, Kiss the Moon and The Last Bird Sings . . . I did not want my new doctor to think I was a flake. The moment I picked up Last Bird, I stopped in track. My heart faltered and the words came. . . I am the last bird, aren’t I? all my siblings . . .7 of them. . . were gone and I was the last bird, and I sing my song to say how it was with me. No one thought my thoughts and no one’s beliefs were spoken out loud. My brothers knew I was different and they worried.
I thought it all was my effort, almost 70 years days and nights. Now I wonder the poem scribed with the words the rose will bloom in December I promise, and I do not make promises lightly . I thought I volunteered for this assignment but now I wonder are we chosen for what we do with our particular talents?
Thank you for your time so generously given. . . veronica
As I was closing, I chanced a glimpse at the below journal entry, I had scribed ending the following . . . .
Feb 17, 2018
Sat 6:32 p.m.
This is why you have not sat and discussed what you already know. You are of one mind and no need anymore. We discuss all the time, your venture to us and we welcome you. In time you come home and in time we list all grievances and also victories. We know the isolation you feel and we know too that once you are with us all, there is no going back. You will be home for good and nothing ever will allow you to be torn from where you do the most good and where your heart will never be at risk again. It has been a hard contract to fulfill. But it was done with appropriate and non regrettable behavior and we missed you sorely. Amen and amen.
(I finally located the poem Rose in December, (written Nov. 7, 1982) from my hard copy and include it now)
The Rose in December. . .
The first frost of winter
has caught the bud unaware. . .
But lo, the edges are burned at the fringes. . . .
closed tight and full. . .
The rose will bloom again in December, I promise.
Look to the bush along the fence,
its roots buried, frozen.
The upright branch will sponsor
the blooming rose. You will pluck it and know. . .
I do not make light promises. . . .