Birthday letter to an old friend

“I was born in ’69, ma’am. I was born in ’69.”

Dearest, I mildly remember Watergate, and when someone gifted Ronald Reagan with a white Arabian stallion.  I was furious.  The explosion of the Challenger and of Mt. St. Helens.  And most formative, the Iranian hostage crisis, during which men kept each other sane by sharing poems, science, teaching each other languages, when freedom, control, safety, all possessions were in the hands of hostile others.  This is when and why I started learning languages, sketching, collecting stories, experiences, conversations in countries, coincidences, homes, silences, discoveries, skills, tricks, games, jokes, recipes, smells, flash fiction, serenity.  If and when I am imprisoned and stripped of all else, I will have something to give, and we will all stay sane that much longer.  In the meantime these things ring in as useful– grace and resource through stressors always lighter than such prison.  And I have quite the collection already, enough never to be decently bored or quite alone.  There is much more still out there to collect during my days not in prison, more than double my days on this planet thus far.  And we’re only here for a while.

We’re all only anywhere for a while.

Love, Lorca


About Lorca Smetana

White doves. Retreats. Insects. Languages. Making.
This entry was posted in Oooh, shiny...! and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Birthday letter to an old friend

  1. Cherilyn says:

    Ain’t that the truth, sugar? Thanks for all your gentle reminders to look around with wonder.

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