These years were a time of growing up and growing away, as she held on to the delicate, precious tether of the written word. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, with her journal on her lap, she spent afternoons writing and inking her memories.
There were stories about Minnie, the neighbor who played Bob Dylan loud enough that her sister could have polkaed to his music had she wanted to. There would be news about Jim and Eleanor and their relatives, who lived a long drive away on the West side. Of sunny days and heavy rainfalls. Of changing seasons, arriving and taking leave as quietly as a wind breeze. In her words she chiseled the shape of the days; sometimes as participant, sometimes as observer, she would reveal or conceal her own presence in the moment unfolding on the delicate paper. She attempted to explain the seductive quality of this inner space to other people, these endless years of self-imposed exile from life, wrestling with the feeling of being misunderstood and the havoc of letting go. They did not understand. Write, write, and write some more.
She drove out to Ventura very early this morning. As she stood on the cliffs of the State Beach, admiring the sunrise dipping the skies into a subtle rosé and breathing in the salty, crisp air, she finally made up her mind. Gently she placed her last journal on the edge separating rock and sea. Words were meant to be shared.
Life now was not about understanding herself as much as understanding the others.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.