I had an experience the other day, snow falling heavily outside my window, reading the sonnets
of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I was lying on my bed, rereading these incredible
sonnets, sonnets that I’ve read before, but I was struck by them in a fresh,
new way. And I thought to myself, why write anymore? In the presence of such
greatness and mastery, why not put down my pen forever and just read? And just then something happened. I had the distinct sensation that Edna took
my face in her hands and stroked my hair tenderly. And I had the impression of
her looming face looking down at me from the window in my room, larger than life, in the swirling snow outside. And I
knew then, absolutely knew, why I must continue to write, write, write.
Creation is love and love has no bounds. So Edna must love me, though my
written word is like a child’s, compared to hers. But just as I wouldn’t want
my kids to stop growing linguistically, artistically, or creatively, because
they feel they are not as “adult”, not as capable as me, so would Edna want me
to continue to write. Because she loves my inner child's creativity and need to
grow, she would want me to continue learning and growing. So now I know why I
want to continue to write. Writing is my life raft, my sanctuary, where I
experience freedom and huge expanses, where I can grow in a climate of love.
Then suddenly I remembered that this was not the first time Edna
had communicated with me. When I was 19 and living in New York City with Ed
Young, we took a walk one rainy, windy spring evening to the street and then to
the house where Edna had lived in Greenwich Village. The wind was whirling
madly about and the air was moist, cool and pleasant. The blossoms of magnolia
trees were in full bloom, ripe, falling to the ground, beautiful petals,
fresh and tender and full of life and promise. On the brick steps of her three feet
wide home (the narrowest home in NYC), I found a new pencil, a beautiful pencil
with a white horse’s head covering the eraser. It seemed to be made of felt and
sequins, if I remember correctly. I kept that pencil for the longest time,
years, because it was a special gift, I thought, a symbolic gift from Edna
herself to me, a direct communication to write. Of course, some other admirer of
hers had probably passed earlier that evening and laid the pencil there, and I happened to find it, but still, there is something magical about that, a connection, and I
will never forget it.
