I used to write.  Before blogs, before the internet, before I knew what a computer was. In high school and just after, I wrote poetry.  I had a notebook that I kept it in.  I once wrote a long…long…long poem about peace (it was 1972 remember) and translated the whole thing into Latin.  Yes, I am that old.  It was the last class ever to be taught Latin in my high school and hey – it got me an A!

I had a friend in a band that read some of my poems and asked if they could try to make some into songs.  One of the guys in their band, Jim, wrote music.  they worked with it for awhile and invited me to a rehearsal session to work on some of them.  Just poetry is a little different than having a chorus or a bridge and we worked on that.

A week later Jim was dead.  He told his wife he was going hunting and went out to the woods with his gun, sat down on a log, and shot himself.

In all of my eighteen year old arrogance, I was more angry than anything else.  At that age your friends are EVERYTHING. You know all about them – every minute detail of every day.  Who they love, what music they like, what kind of trouble they are having with their parental units (because at that age we all did – let’s face it), their moods, and what ticks them off.  Jim was older and at the time I didn’t understand that as you get older, friendships change.  They are still important of course, but not as all consuming.  Other things in your life become important.  A confused girl grieved for you Jim and barely knew you.  I know now, the faces we show others often have nothing to do with our insides.

At that time I just could not see how someone could get to the point where they would kill themselves without someone who KNEW them for heaven’s sake, stepping in and doing something to help them.  Back then we believed you could fix anything by just talking about it.  Depression was not a medical problem – it was a counseling problem, we thought.

A week after Jim died, Paul brought my notebook back to me.  I never looked at it again.  I have no idea what happened to it.  I never wrote poetry again.  The band fell apart and I hope that somewhere, somehow, Paul forgives me for not being more compassionate about what he must have been going through instead of being so full of my adolescent, self-involved drama. I remember and forgive me.

When I was a girl
An old woman lived inside
She looked out through my eyes
She saw when I lied

But now I am older
The girl lives on still
Her heart is within me
My faith and her will

We’ve lived far apart
Through years and through living
Often at odds
My holding, her giving

I reach out before me
To meet her halfway
Will we now become friends
Keeping demons at bay

The past and the present
Now finally to wed
Hanging on to the best
Turning loose of what’s dead

We still are becoming
That young girl and I
The door has been opened
Her secrets are mine

The child and the woman
Hand stretching to hand
Our history stays with us
While futures are planned

The circle turns slowly
And life marches on
Fears are laid down
And the night becomes dawn

When we stop being so grown-up
When we love the young soul
When we heal them together
We again become whole

My blog is three years old today.  I reached my goal of losing thirty pounds.  I wrote a poem.

I think I will set some new goals.  Hello world.