For the past 11 months, my notebooks have been in a suitcase locked away. Not the ones that are in my handbag filled with blue ink, of course. But my history.
I took such an emotional and psychological beating over a three year period, that I shut off one of the most important parts of me. Sure there’s a lot of my words floating around here on this site, but they aren’t inky.
Ink is and will always be what flows through my veins. My blood line. For awhile my life really dried up, for reasons too vast to phrase.
Considering I was married when I was 25 until close to 35, my adult life was really fueled by a relationship. My ex-husband never understood how he impacted my word art. He never gave a shit, to be frank, which is just another reason I left him 10,000 miles behind me.
The collection of tepid lovers I’ve acquired over the past few sets of months may have inspired a poem or story, nothing earth shattering. Certainly nothing soul shaking.
Then, about three weeks ago, I met someone who completely changed my life. I don’t stop thinking about him. I tap my fingers and bop my toes thinking of where we’ll go next; what flowers I’ll bring him; the sound of his voice or spark of his touch.
And finally, this morning, I opened my suitcase of notebooks. First, I cried. Not a lot, just a little. Then I called Anthony to tell him what he inspired of my morning.
I can’t even begin to get into what’s in these books. Aside from my literal life from about 2001 forward, the poetry and stories and ideas are some of my personal favorites. I simply flipped a few pages here and there. I know how my weekend will be spent.
Praises to all things divine for finally turning my page. It’s been years. I couldn’t be more grateful.