“It is now, when the whole jar of humidity has been poured on me like wet petals, and there is no question of dryness anywhere, that I am most close to everything alive. The wet breath that links leaves to sky to my lungs reaches deep inside my body and stirs the silent seeds of all I hold dear, and you, like the powerful muscle we call heart, grow stronger with me.”
– Joan Rohr Myers
Isaac has been away three weeks and six days exactly, with 13 days more to go. I didn’t think I’d be as strong as I have been. Not strong as in the strong that holds together, but strong as in resilient. Who knew!
I’ve been writing him a letter (via email) for every single night that he’s been away. I knew that with his tour schedule and early morning radio commitments, interviews, photo shoots, etc (his turn now) I might be lucky to speak with him for 10 minutes by phone.
Knowing me, I want to tell everyone everything, especially him. So I came up with a special tradition, a method for funneling everything I’ve seen, heard, done and felt into a personal email for Isaac. ”I love these fucking private blogs,” he confided. I highly recommend this tradition for all wives, lovers, friends and family who are far but near to your heart.
Here are some excerpts from my missives:
“I miss you already. It’s the tiny things that give me the twitchiest pangs. Your coffee grinds still in the pot, your papers on the table, your clothes on the chair upstairs. Soon I’ll tidy them all up and soon you will make more coffee and pile more papers and it won’t seem as long as we think.” (1/40)
“In the background is a strange sensation recognizing the absence of you here. I think my body is still adjusting. It’s good for me to be me and get back to a sense of individuation and self without other. It’s interesting.” (2/40)
“There are fireflies starting to dance all around me […] All is very still and yet intensely alive. It’s amazing being here by myself, seeing the empty fullness, the quietness amongst the noise. There are birds rustling in the branches, chirping, tweeting in the distance. There are ants crawling up the tree I’m leaning on. There are tiny insects the names of which I don’t know, who zoom past on their way somewhere […] Life is peaceful here on the river.” (6/38)
“There are so many fireflies out at this time. When it got darker we walked over to the field [...] and could hear the symphonic music happening. It was really wonderful. We put the blankets down and watched the fireworks through the trees and the fireflies in the trees, it was as if the stars were on earth, too.” (10/38)
“The number of birds seems to have doubled.” (11/38)
“The corn is about as high as my hip. Everything’s changing. I have felt so embedded in the world recently, so aware and awake to it all, knowing that this too shall pass. This summer time green, the superfluousness of leaves and liveliness, the humidity, the heat, the perfumes from the earth and flowers, that will all depart the atmosphere, and something else will come in. A new winter we’ve never experienced before. A new fall, a new spring, and endless new summers.” (13/38)
“I found the most stunning owl feather in the third forest this evening! Owl feathers are treasured by the Native Indians, they symbolize wisdom and knowing. I knew it was an owl feather because I hear the owl who lives in that forest. I call it the third forest because The Cathedral is the first forest, then there is another forest I haven’t named yet, and Owl’s Forest is the next one. It could also be called Thunder Hideout, because that’s also where we hid during the thunder storm.” (22/40)
“Everything has bust its seams in the last few days. I saw: Pears. Apples. Raspberries. Blackberries. Frogs. Peaches. Mother and baby deer drinking water. Butterflies. Flowers on trees. Flowers in gardens. Flowers above my head, soggy beneath my feet. Green leaves, grass, leaves, leaves. Blue sky and tiny flowers. Bright golden sun. I heard: Cicadas. Birds. Frogs. Deer. Planes. Bikes. Cars. Gravel. Leaves rustling. My breath.” (27/40)
(The countdown is on!)