Edna in the Snow

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.

Beauty in Winter