This weekend, I stepped up the process of going through my things with a "fine-tooth comb". It was one thing going through books. None of the books were written by me, and it's fairly easy at this late date to differentiate between the volumes that I haven't ever read, or rarely refer to, and those that I might possibly use in the future. About half of them will go to next year's library sale, local street-side boxes, or (when too heavily notated), the trash.
It's the personal papers, memorabilia, and journals that are traumatizing. This is the moment when I would give anything for a loving daughter, granddaughter, or younger interested friend or relative. Because it isn't so much the individual objects and collectibles. (Heck, throwing out a few letters I wrote my parents from Smith, or travel brochures from various English cathedrals, isn't hard.) It's the stories behind these objects, the remarkable, remarkable journey I've had, and the fear (yes, it is that!) that I'll die without anyone hearing these stories.
There are so many layers to this onion and I can only peel away one or two today. When I first moved to Duluth in the 1990's, I wanted to start over without the heavy baggage of my East Coast and English influences. I wanted to morph into a more normal American, and I just simply stayed silent. Out here, to this day, references to my experiences at private schools and college, University of London, Time Magazine, etc., seem to just disappear into the mist. If that was what I needed thirty years ago, I guess I have to acknowledge it isn't what I need now.
Yet even among family and some friends, my stories remain untold. When I returned to the US from England in 1981, my parents basically just asked what was next, and showed no interest in my music studies, travel, friends and singing experiences. About ten years ago I took my first trip to England in many years, and there was a family/friend get-together in Helena, supposedly to welcome me back and hear about it. Yet the only question I remember being asked that night was, "How's the food in England these days?" I mean, this was the trip where I unexpectedly sang a choral evensong service at King's College, Cambridge with that college's mixed choir, and had a number of magical experiences in connection with my research into composer Herbert Howells. Conversations came and went, wine and beer flowed, but I remained invisible.
Vignettes of my life keep popping into my head, like the time (described in my October 25, 2016 blog post, "Wheels") my rusty ten-year-old red VW Fastback and I inadvertently led the motorcade bringing Begin and Sadat to Washington to sign the Camp David Accords. I suppose no one would ever believe it, and so many of my life events. Just like I can hardly believe that months ago, I started using the name "Beryl" to identify my highest self/my spiritual ancestress (see April 15 blog), and now a powerful hurricane has been assigned that name!
I hand-wrote a memoir back in 2018-19, but at that time I didn't own a computer and had to use library computers to start the process of recording the material to thumb drive. However, once COVID came along, I couldn't go to the library anymore and completely lost steam. Five years later, trying to become audible and visible at the moment when our culture most wants older women just to fade away, seems nearly impossible. Trying to find a meaning-and-companion-filled "forever home" when people just seem to see "old and poor" appears almost as impossible on this dreary, rainy day. Yet I ask the Goddess's help with all of it -- organizing, finding inspiration and direction about my future, perhaps younger human hands to help pack, and a clear signal of love to follow into the future. Most of all, dear Goddess, I want to tell more of my stories, and find the people who want to hear! Ultimately, I'd like to think these stories represent Her -- and the complex, important lives of all women.
