“When children can no longer devote sympathy, owing to growing up. One mind always engaged or found with labor in order to be. Later on the trees acquired winter. Sent and took and did not go out. The weight of never shedding. We anticipated a cure if come willingly. We were unable to carry out nature. These impressions, fresh, often made me to see his life previous, the principal sadness I had to recognize.
We planted trees. We cleared the pond. Gathered different, undisturbed faith. Gradually the steps further and further withdrawing over the hills, beyond the fencerow. I was too weak. I was often driven, but saw no way. I would never go back.
The difference, between us, not because I remained the same, unable to unalter, but taken from the midst, rarely clouded, and the broken. It was this, which woke me open, opened to an outsider, a stranger.”
The Academy of American Poets published this section of Daughter of a Tree Farm by Carrie Olivia Adams. I know not what to say in response to it, nor do I understand it. But it has intrigued me and been on my mind for the past few days.
I was too weak. I was often driven, but saw no way. I would never go back.
Sitting at home in the short window of time I have in between one flight and the next. Today its been gray skies and lush green and me near my old school together with a friend. It’s late now and things are everywhere. I don’t feel packed. Tomorrow the madness of travel will begin again and make me wonder why I bother to do these things to myself. But for now, I am calm.
It’s been quite a year. I had a beautiful spring in London doing all sorts of crazy things, a sudden course change, and a return home to a new house, all the while slowly sinking into a sea of deep longing and unresolved emotion. It must have begun in London, this gradual opening of space, and the surfacing of hidden things, the things that have quietly been haunting my life. What began as a pervasive anguish turned into a low-grade but crippling depression, a pain in my chest that made it hard to get through the day. The week before my flight to Japan I seemed to have hit a new low. I felt on the brink of tears the whole day, and cried uncontrollably at night. In the midst of my trembling and sobbing I felt I finally heard some of the words my heart had been silently screaming all this while.
And then it rained, and I broke. I wandered out into the night, clutching my stuffed rabbit, sat in the dark, whispered a prayer.
After that night the feelings suddenly lifted. I felt a little numb, a little strange, but I got busy preparing for my trip and put my thoughts aside. On the first night at the airport hotel in Chitose airport, my brother and I watched snow fall in the window. I was struck by the peacefulness of the scene, one worthy of a children’s book – a boy and his older sister watching the snow.
Perhaps, it is about time I let the losses lie where they fall. 20 years I have hurt and hungered and in my hurt blocked myself from the very things that would heal me. I know not what to do with myself now. But slowly, slowly, perhaps I will breathe again. I do not know where the child inside of me has wandered to now. Perhaps she is sitting in a white world, watching the snow fall, quietly waiting for her world to come undone.