Two years.
Sometimes you carry on with the work, and it’s a struggle, and then sometimes you realize the work is carrying you.
The image above is from one of the notebooks I started filling after Ida’s death. There’s a lot in those books. A lot of words and a lot of pictures and most of it is stuff no one will ever see (at least not while I’m still kicking around).
Or is it?
It’s not lost on me that the book I’m currently working on is an underworld journey. It’s the story of boy with a candle going deeper and deeper into the into the dark, and of what he finds there. It’s a story of ghosts and shadows. It’s about lost things and moving on.
It’s not the story from my grief journal, not even close, but there are certainly pieces of shared imagery.
Here’s the secret: my published work, my shared work—it’s really only the tip of the iceberg. Most of what I scribble down is just for me. Just because. Because it’s a habit. Because it’s my way of thinking. Because I have pens and pencils and blank pages to fill.
And it brings me peace. Not complete peace, never that.
But maybe as much as anyone has any right to hope for.
