Pilgrim's Sanctuary

I so often found comfort growing up in the equalizer known as darkness. I would slip away to my second story corner room and position myself in the moonbeams by my window. Basking in the muted glow, I invested hours in deep thought as I recorded events and created written corridors brimming with experiences through which I could wander at will.

I'd pick up a pencil and capture my daydreaming so I was sure I could return often. Little did I realize this practice would form the cornerstone for a lifetime of writing.

http://sherwoodforestintheglen.blogspot.com/

Tucked away in a very special wooden box atop my dresser was that first journal. It gradually
became the repository for all the joy and conflicts in my tumultuous childhood. It was overflowing with wisdom about the hard facts of life as seen through the eyes of an eight year old philosopher. It cradled my dreams, tamed my wild imaginings, and dignified my anger or sadness. I daily embraced my dearest and truest friend. One journal grew to two, then three, and now, dozens, in every shape and size.

My childhood, while often appearing charmed to the outside, was privately and irreversibly affected by ghosts in my parents' lives. When darkness brought the terror of anger and rejection, I focused beyond to that place no one could reach or control. I had a sense of freedom knowing my writing fortress was mine alone, as was my hiding place between the cover of books.

Writing became a part of me. I breathed, I wrote. I ate, I wrote. I swam or danced or practiced piano, I wrote. I recorded, related, refined, and relived every event no matter how significant. Soon the small treasure box couldn't contain my life. Since I was ever wary of having my thoughts and feelings exposed, my journals found their way into bottom drawers under winter sweaters, on top shelves in dusty shoe boxes, and even behind loosened panels in hall closets. I gradually focused less on conventional locked diaries (for they weren't really locked at all) and more on maturing and spontaneous writings. Folders collected observational napkin swatches, colored paper bits with fairy tale escapades, lined index cards with quotes and titles, and random torn notebook sheets capturing phrases, doodles, and marginal comments. I would transfer the content to notebooks in private, but couldn't part with the original fragments and so, they piled up. (In fact, they still do!)

I spent more and more time in my room or in the far west corner of the yard under the old gnarled apple tree. Rarely seen anywhere without pen and paper in hand, my father became suspicious and often angry, wanting to control every corner of my life. He failed to believe me when I said I was just thinking and writing a lot. He felt threatened by my private pursuits and mumbled something about "just like your mother." He would launch a tirade and ban me from my room for awhile so he would "know what I was up to."

Poor Dad. He never understood he couldn't control my heart, my thoughts, my mind. Those would remain mine alone, always and forever. Committed to words in any form, this rhythm has continued for a lifetime.

And now, my slips of paper are moving online. From handwritten to typewriter, notebooks to calligraphy, dot matrix to the Internet. It is gratifying to honor that voice anew.