So here I am. Surrounded by her books, things that were special to us, photos of us, but mostly with the inspiration she bestowed upon me. At times it’s hard to believe she has been gone almost a year, I’m still crumbling daily … missing our talks, her gentle way of phrasing things so that I could see her thoughts. I miss the way I’d use a bland word when describing something and she’s say, “Oh certainly you can do better than that.” She taught me to think in metaphors and in colors of a box of crayons. Now that I’m here, it’s as if I’m seeing the world through her eyes and I’m so thankful.
You’ll all have to excuse me, because every sentence is more than likely to end in an exclamation point … probably multiple ones … in bold … possibly italics … in orange or red! This is a dream I’ve been inching towards for quite a while, three years I think. I was bolstered forward like a catapult had smacked me in the rear end shortly after my Mountain Mother, Nancy Simpson, passed away after a long illness. Even though it broke me in half, she had made me promise her during her last week that I would see that dream true. I answered all to quickly that I would. Not good enough for the woman who knew me best. She let out an exasperated breath and grabbed my hand after a minute and made me look directly at her. “No,” she said. “Promise me. Stop talking about it and go live your dream. Be an old woman on a mountain and write. It’s the best advice I can give you.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks and she told me she’d have none of that … “Emotion is meant to be remembered and written down.”
My little log cabin is adorable and is halfway between Waynesville and Maggie Valley. It’s so quiet here you can hear your long forgotten thoughts and silences. Sleep here is like a coma … you close your eyes and the curtain of the day drops. When it’s raised the next morning, you can hardly believe your eyes. It wasn’t a dream. I’m really here!