I recently moved back to my hometown after a decade-long battle with the aftermath of the recession that tore me from it. It’s a new home, fresh paint and all. We have no neighbors, though I expect that to change rapidly within the next six months. Around seven (???) other families decided to begin building houses on the nearby sections of land at the same time. Great. Just great. There goes my tranquility.
I’ve decided to adopt the hobby of flower pressing. I do not possess a fancy pressing machine, but instead my trusty green journal I call Dickinson. What? Huh? You don’t assign names to your journals? Well, you certainly should. It makes them feel life-like. More real. Go ahead, name them. Now you are destined to become a hoarder because you are emotionally attached to your journal.
I know what you’re thinking; “Rebekah, it’s a dumb notebook! Why did you name it after a deceased poet? You are a silly goose!”
Okay, yes, I named my sketchbook/notebook/journal/leather-bound therapy session after The Great™️ Emily Dickinson. I love her. I’ve placed a small, obscure picture of her in my bedroom window. We also share the same birthday, although she was maybe born 200 years earlier. I say “maybe” because I don’t know how math works and I can’t remember the year she was born. Or the year I was born, for that matter. Also, yes, I am a silly goose.
I haven’t written a post such as this one on my blog in a very long time. It’s become rather rambly, don’t you agree? I don’t know how to end this, so I assume it is best for me to leave you with some Laura Gilpin brilliance and whimsy:
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
That is all. I hope you feel a little more human tonight. I sure as heck do.