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British passport defines more than a country

Clinging to a past that doesn’t let you choose

Stay-at-home orders opened a new door for me. I found my way back to shelved relationships, sifting through memories, and writing my way out of uncertainty. I spent a couple of afternoons purging my books and found how much my obsessions have changed. Books arrive in life when our hearts need the topics most.

Like relationships I shelved or shamefully discarded, my memoir grew moldy in drawers and closets. Distance is not always the wrong choice. If the distance is allowed to do its job, it ushers in perspective.

Pandora’s music app is a constant companion reliving the music that held me up during my early writing days. True, I am biased, but the decade of the nineties produced some of the most introspective lyrics and beautiful music for me. Of course, I was in my twenties when emotional dysfunction peaks before perspective start its necessary ascent.

Yesterday, a line from a Sarah McLachlan song, I Will Remember You, both jetted me back to the past and emboldened my resolve for the present and uncertain future.

The line follows. “I’m so afraid to love you but more afraid to lose. Clinging to a past that doesn’t let me choose.

You can listen to the full song by following this link. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSz16ngdsG0.

The blog needed a reboot, but I did, too. In the coming weeks, I’ll be posting new work, but in the meantime, please peruse the new audio and video links and read posts that you might have missed.

Stay safe. Stay healthy. Stay hopeful.

Anna

South Dakota prairie vista

Prairie Whispers

There was a prairie in your past. The glow of a dashboard in an old Buick, the ping, ping of gravel jumping under tire rims. There were bonfires and kegs and midnight visits to the horses, their bodies, a black stain against the midnight. There were back seats with fumbling hands, Elton John, coarse dry wind, and the sound of 4-wheelers filling your head. With the smell of stinkweed and lilac, in your past, you threw hay bales over your shoulder with your pitchfork, scraping mud off your boots with a stick. There was a low creek and the redbreast of a pheasant leaping from the brittle corn, jeans ripped from barbed wire, the smell of hot coffee, and polished leather.

But you left the prairie.

Later, when your heart stumbled, you heard a faint voice in your head – go to the prairie. Get in your car and drive until you can taste pine and black earth on your lips. You listened for once and drove west on the single interstate. There were train cars stacked with black coal and a gray sky pressing down on wheat fields. There was a green tractor winding backward and forwards across the earth. A truck followed behind, its mouth open and ready like a baby bird, ready for the harvested grain that fell like water into its steel beak.

Slowly, the smell of pine and lilac came back to you, first like a terrible stench, but later like the strange scent of salvation. You learned to scrape your boots again and heave hay bales. You tried concentrating on the smell of hot coffee at dawn and polished the saddles with a terrible urgency until one day when your boots were so worn, any other pair of shoes made your feet ache, the smell of stinkweed made you weep. Remember these details: the sound of your boots on crushed gravel, the last humming of crickets before daybreak, and the aching chill moving through your denim jacket before the heat sets in for the day.

The morning of your last ride, the one you still hold onto like a precious photograph, Billy told you what he knew: “When you came here, you were sick. I don’t know what made you sick, but you were sick. The lies we tell ourselves never fill the holes inside us. I think you will be alright, but be gentle with your heart.

Deep in the months of a prairie winter, you still remember how Billy believed in your own redemption long before you did, a redemption only the prairie of your past could offer.