Handwriting in the Squall

This is a silk fireweed stalk given to me long ago in Alaska by my friend Tara. I've managed to hang onto it for years, as I've gradually lost nearly everything else sentimental and material in my life. I post it now because I had recently unpacked it...after managing to carry it with me across seven states waiting for the time I would have a home again.

When I pulled it out of the bag it was in, it was smashed.....flowers matted against the bent stalk, leaves twisted and poking out in odd directions. It took me about a half hour to gently unfold and fluff it. I placed it in a caraffe where I had also placed black and white rocks from my favorite beach in Brookings, below where I used to live...and the last place I had dared to upack my symbolic flower. The last place I had felt home. The last place I had felt safe in love, and sure in my direction.

It is back in the bag where I had taken it from...and through a series of painful events...for which I hold nothing but heart hurt and sadness for everyone impacted...I am staying at a domestic violence shelter.

This has actually been a gift in my life, oddly enough...exactly where I am supposed to be...but it will be some time again before I unpack this fireweed stalk. And that is okay. It is safe, and so am I.

I haven't had peaceful internet access in a while. It comes irregularly and with frequent interruptions . But, I have been writing my blog entries, also waiting for time to post them. I'm going to start posting them...not that I am under the impression that the whole world has been eagerly awaiting...but this is how I process my life and my journey...as overly wordy as I may frequently be. "Locquacious Jo" is a good name for my rock band. I can haughtily throw dictionaries at the imaginary audience...instead of guitar picks.

Anyway, here comes the flood. My therapy.