It’s been awhile since I’ve felt like writing. I mean other than the stuff I’ve written for the radio program and write-ups I’ve done for the mag., I’ve been sort of uninspired. That, or just plain busy living, which is sort of something to celebrate. My life in Nevada has taken an unexpected turn, and dare I say I actually have one. Filled with new friends who are among some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Of course, it’s early and the foundation is still being built, but I am excited about the future and I’m actually beginning to feel like I’m sort of home here in the desert. I mean, well kind of, sort of.
This past weekend was perhaps one of the best ones yet, and I can sense that great things are going to unfold. Nothing is happening in the manner I had anticipated though but as I so often do, I recognized I’m not the one in control, and I’ve been mindful.
One of the interesting things that happened since I’ve moved out to Nevada, has to do with my desire to write the book. I used to think I’d be in Pennsylvania when I was writing, in a cabin in the woods. There would be a fireplace or coal burning stove, and I’d have a dog. My choice, a golden retriever but for some reason there’s a German Shepard and the pieces don’t always fit. I don’t even know why it was Pennsylvania, but that’s always been the thought. It’s as though my vision of where I’d finally perch myself and finally commit to the process of writing would need to be complete before I set about to write, only now that’s all changing. I’m in a room, in my brother’s home and I am realizing that I might begin to start sooner. I feel as though I’m doing the narrative for my doctorate and in a way, I wish I was but there’s not going to be some fancy label at the end of this story and for all I know, nobody’s going to read it, but it doesn’t matter. What matters more is the journey I am about to take, back in time to pick up the pieces.
So this December, I am going to take a trip to Reading, where my mother grew up, and learn about who she was before I was born, and try to understand more about what might have caused her to let go of her four children, when I was only three months old. I used to think she let go of me when I was six weeks old, but I came across divorce papers that were filed back when I was an infant, and the details of the abandonment or whatever its called are dated in August and that’s a good three months after April. I mean, if you do the math, I was almost four months old. So that means there might have been four months that I was taken care of and maybe there were nights that she held me. Then again, maybe she was too busy, because from what the papers describe life was pure madness in her world and there didn’t seem to be any time for normalcy. Was there a room, a crib, a feeding time, or was I left to fend for myself from as early as ‘Day One?’
For whatever reason, I’d like to learn more about her and find our what happened in her world and see if there is anyone who knew her back then. Why didn’t I ask her these things when she was alive? Why did I wait until she died to wonder? Truth? I did ask her, but she told me that the past was not important and I had no right to know anything about her life, and it was none of my business. Maybe she thought I would judge her. Maybe I would have. Only, now I want nothing other than to know her. The woman I knew very little about, was someone before I was born. For some reason it seems to matter to me more than ever, and I’m not sure why but something about her dying has left me feeling closer to her, and maybe it’s now that I’ll begin to understand, or then again maybe I’ll never understand but rather just learn some of what I never knew.