Photo of Judy at Lifestyle workshop by Elisabeth 2018
Talking to Myself Forty-Six November 1, 2020
“Nature for me--fire, water, wind, stones, plants, animals–all these are parts of a broken single being. And man in nature is the mind of a great being accumulating strength in order to gather all of nature into a unity.”–Mikhail Prishvin.
You find me in Russian literature. Not
too surprising. Have I not loved your poets
and story tellers from my youth? Dostoevsky,
Tolstoy, Akhmatova, Esenin, Mandelstam.
I wait in the hour when the time changes
back from two in the morning to one, and
the dogs, restless in their sleep, yelp and
cough, then grow quiet. I wanted to be four
things: my own archetype: Shakespeare’s
Sister as Virginia Woolf envisioned her;
then partner, a Penelope to an Odysseus,
but also an Odysseus myself. Then healer.
Sometimes people yielded me the power
to touch and reassure them. Others fled
my love. But one remained. I wanted to be
a master of my art, and it was in your city
of Kostroma that I found my way and that
by loving all the people who let me into
their souls and even some who tried to keep
me out. Now you call me a master. In these
years of my aging, it’s hard to believe. Yet
then, in that quiet, borrowed apartment, I
felt my mind giving me all it had. Words
came easily. So many losses around me and
unhappy people, and yet I flourished. I
was happy. People loved me for myself.
I was a stranger, but treated like kin. Your
tiny grandson let me hold him. Vera gave
me a mustard plaster. You found my
apartment, understood I wanted solitude,
to be with myself by myself, to create,
to love, to do what only I could do. The
dogs are asleep. I’ll sleep now.