On Saturday, I made a little trip down to my mom's to visit. There's an old trunk that used to sit in my room in the closet of one of her bedrooms. It is small and has a picture of two kittens playing with a ball of yarn. How sweet. It is filled with things of my childhood, and she has begged me over and over to take it to my house. But it's heavy, and I really have no place to put it, and so I put her off each time she mentions it. This Saturday, the kids wanted to see what was inside. A couple of albums - literally, records. A scrapbook of all my New Kids on the Block memorabilia. A few old yearbooks from my junior high days. And a small book of poetry.
Where I got the small cardboard bound book I really can't recall. I would assume from my writing grandmother, the one who has encouraged me to move the pen in my hand since I was old enough to put letters together to form words. The cover is a scene of a garden in an impressionist manner - lots of green and colors all about. The inside is full of blank pages with lines in true journal style. And I filled over half these pages with my own words between December of 1993 and April of 1995. During those times, I kept a pen or pencil in my hand. I kept journals of all my feelings and drama and longings and dreams. I had stacks of old notebooks and legal pads with words. And I take it I wrote some poetry back then, too. It's not that I had forgotten, but rather that part of me has just kinda been tossed to the side and replaced by adulthood. I have read them all, and at first I laughed out loud at some of them. But the more I read, the quieter I got.
I miss the old me.
I wouldn't want to go back to being young again for anything else in the world. And those words on those pages of all the hurt and disappointment I felt back then just reminded me of that even more. I was so insecure. So needy. So shattered and torn. But I was so honest. So innocent. So hopeful and full of dreams. I felt so much... really felt all these feelings and then put them down in the most genuine way. And I miss that side of me.
I would give anything to have those old journals. My ex-husband threw them away while we were dating, and it makes me sick now. He was an idiot, but I was the bigger idiot for allowing it to happen. It just seems like from that point on in my life, the fire in my soul just slowly died. Just slowly burned itself out. I just wish I could read all the pages and pages of feelings I wrote about - the dates, the heart aches, the loneliness, the hopes and dreams. All of it. I didn't know then that there would come a time that I would read a page of my own thoughts and not remember them. But that time has come.
Some of my poetry was cheesy and contrived. But some of it was pretty good. Some of it I remembered exactly who and what it was about, but most of it, I did not. Some had dates and notes about them. Some were titled. And all of them were written by a girl I don't know really know anymore. A young, young girl.
I'll share one with the world in honor of that sweet young girl with big dreams -
September 28, 1994
It gets kinda lonely in the trees.
No one else around
With whom to share the breeze.
And those Northern winds -
They leave me far beyond the crooked stream.
The grass may wave,
The birds may chirp,
But no one ever thinks
Of how it feels to be the one
To lose its evergreen.
Somewhere beyond that cloud,
I know there lies for me
An open field with open dreams -
An open destiny.
But until then, I make rest here
And look down at the world,
Slowly swaying back and forth,
Blowing in the wind.