Letter to Self

Back in May my Spiritual Direction class was encouraged to write letters to ourselves. I just received my letter. I asked myself to remember the power of words, my 'duty' to bring voice to the voiceless, the ineffable. I asked myself, "Are you daring to live a life without a why or wherefore? Are you living the question? Are you listening?"

The answer, yes. I am choosing again to take the risky route, sell the house, go back to school, do what I long to do, not what I think others think I should do. I have sadness about leaving my home. It has been quite the refuge, respite, and retreat for eight years. Below is a tribute to my lifesaving trail, the Ellen Davis Trail, just a block from my home:

What to Remember Before I Go
To eat
blackberries for breakfast
To cross over
NE 54th Street, green bowl in hand
To nod
at Steve, the neighbor I barely know, as he retrieves his morning paper
To pass
three mailboxes (one black, two green)
To turn
right onto a gravel road
To notice
apples still tight and red/green on their gnarled branches
To stroll
past the farmer’s garden with his purple peonies
To wonder
when the trail-tenders will rake the year-old pile of wood chips into the mud hole
To know
where the first blackberry bush begins and still feel child-like anticipation
To remember
when Karen brought over her three children to pick blackberries and swim
at Klineline pond. “These are Eva branches,” the youngest claimed, fingers and lips
already stained, “Nobody else can pick this low.”
To climb
the Ellen Davis Trail, switchbacks lined half way up with hexagonal concrete bricks,
Queen Anne’s Lace, and dusty blue chicory (the color of my cousin’s soul, so she says)
To study
the seasons of my path, first violets, then trillium, false Solomon seal, blackberry
blossoms and finally, in the end, blackberries
To be ready
for baby rabbit crossings and the familiar coo
of morning doves or is it mourning doves
hear me leave me
me me
me me
me me
To reach in
gingerly, past the thorns, touch me, I am warm
To smell twilight
purple ripeness
To test readiness
by the willingness to slip from the vine like a lover
an easy melt, sweet, silent surrender
knee-dropping gratitude ~ do I deserve this much pleasure?
To fill my bowl.