I guess there’s some things you never really get over. Not really.
The real ones. The backwards ones. I buried them. All over. That’s the secret. From Yellow Gap Trail in Pisgah National Forest to Abiquiu, New Mexico, I buried my notebooks.
Rash-ish, at least.
“Do you know what it means when a mother buries her baby’s umbilical cord?”
“Of course,” Mahala answered, turning her copper face toward mine. “Why?” she gently whispered.
“My mother buried mine in Albuquerque, New Mexico,” I told her as tears filled my eyes. “And I never asked her why.”
“It is simple,” Mahala said. “That is where your soul is.”
There was no way for me to know back then that whatever instinct made my mother suggest that maybe I should keep keeping that secret a secret would end up having value, but that is, indeed, what has happened.
Stick around. It’s just getting good.
Mother was big on impressing upon my memory just who was the boss. She felt that the memories of most people were not utilized as well as they could be. She said that the memory was like a dog, and wanted to be trained…
“You will remember this Arch forever, because you have impressed it into your mind, my darling Tami. You just took a picture that can never be destroyed, stolen, or lost. You just took a picture that you can take with you wherever you go, forever, and no one can ever take it away from you.”
“The act of writing is a mystical thing,” she continued. “More than the mere marks written upon a page; writing a thing down can actually bring that thing into being. It is already halfway there as soon as your pen touches the page! And understanding? Writing will rain down blessings of understanding and knowledge into your life! I tell you the truth, my little angel, the ballet of the pen is, at times, divine.”