Transcendental Campsite by @rebecca9

Cross-posted from: The Daly Woolf: An Uncanny Journal of Memoir, Poetry, and Cultural Analysis
Originally published: 25.06.15

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It was here, beneath the Blue Spruce where I buried my feet in wet leaves, cold dirt. Where I sat on melting snow to listen for the song of the cardinal, where I closed my eyes to remember all that beauty, all that pain of those dying days.

After Jiminah died the cardinal did not return; off to another tree, a high wire, to sing an animal, a human, out of body into the next world.

Why must I leave this place where I have felt the miracle and madness of loss, of love and hate: That reckless duality of the psyche I’ve befriended, entwined within; a passage into countless breakthroughs. There is an emptiness now in the cellar of my being. It will travel with me and I will  avoid it with wine and sleep and useless information, but more often, I will tend to it like a child who has lost hope for the return of love.
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