Poetry
Hello dear readers. I am back from my trip and still thinking about what it means to be in places where ancestors we chose—those who lived before us who have made our lives so meaningful in different ways—lived, worked, loved, and died. I was able to spend an hour writing in Emily Dickinson’s room, and I still can’t stop thinking about being in the same space where those incredibly stunning poems came to life through her hand. That the mirror hanging over her dresser once held her gaze, as it held mine when I walked out to leave. Where does all of a life ever go? I can’t believe that she isn’t still there, writing—it feels like she must be.
So as I work on the next post, I wanted to share a link to a poem of my own that was recently published at Sky Island Journal. Each contributor is listed, and a download of their work is available when you click on their link.
Leaving you with views of the gorgeous oak tree that is original to the Dickinson house, having survived hurricanes in the 1930s that felled many of its neighboring original trees. The sound of the breeze and the cicadas among the branches is not something I’ll soon forget.
Freya, l so appreciate these words, “…ancestors we chose…” and that for you, Emily Dickinson is among yours chosen.
I understand. She was the six-times-great cousin of my mother, named Emily after her. I was adopted, so does that make Emily Dickinson any less my ancestor? I don’t think so.
I grew up hearing all about our Emily, reading, memorizing her poetry, many books given me by my favorite cousin, Vernez, with her artsy handwriting filling up an inside front page, reminding me that Emily Dickinson and I were connected now and forever, just as she—a blood cousin—was too. What a gift.
Reading how you truly appreciate the life and writing of Emily, urged me to thank you for sharing your journey to her home, with your photos to help visualize and reading your own poetic dedication of what it meant to write in her room, walk inside and outside her home, surrounded by the majestic old oaks—with stories of their own—I just feel certain.
"refuse the wicking
downward pull"
Along with our relatives the trees, aren't we all doing just that very thing.
Splendid poetry Freya, thank you for sharing.