I recently decided to go through my old poetry journals, editing and rewriting them into a lovely new blank book my husband had given me. While I was reading over the old, very bad, young lust, love and life inspired poetry I had written many moons ago, I became increasingly uncomfortable. It was difficult to think back on those other lives, other selves, other times. I made a decision then to carry forward only the poems I loved, violently ripping, shredding and editing the ones I couldn’t tolerate. When I was done I had a beautiful Van Gogh Almond Blossoms covered tome of my good but somewhat sanitized past, one that I was comfortable with.
Here’s where the story gets strange. Every day since then I have woken up with, started reciting in the shower, or thought of while mindlessly driving, lines from the ‘bad’ poetry I had eliminated from my journal. What is that all about? Do our creations have a life of their own? Can they haunt you if you turn your back on them?
I don’t have an answer to that, and I’m sure there have been plenty of times when I have let go of creations that left me alone, but for some reason these were very insistent. Maybe they wanted to remind me that all of the times of my life, even, and maybe most especially, the messy, sordid and human ones, made me who I am today.
To all of the many things I have created, and to all the parts of myself I try to forget- I love you, accept you, and thank you. I will never again casually disregard or discard you, but try instead to bring your lessons forward in love and light.