Letter 7

Dear Josephine,

Sometimes I think of you as my patron saint. Isn't writing a type of prayer? Tonight a tiny airplane carried me from New York City to Washington. It barreled through the sky as if to say, "yes, I am here, and no, I do not have time to talk I am in a hurry", and we cruised over a cloud landscape that resembled a hiker's snowy terrain and the mountainous volumes in Alaska; although I have never been to Alaska I know this analogy must be true. But the pilot moved the plane so quickly and without much grace and I clutched my seat and mentally stated everything for wish I am thankful. My reasoning was such: I do not want to die, so God (although I can't claim to be "a believer") here are the things in life I appreciate. Is appreciation and recognition a sign of admission? I ended, as perhaps I too often do, dramatically, with a homage to Pandora, for she left us with an allowance for hope. I am fearful of despair.

Going to London made me recognize the importance of expression, how we often forget to express ourselves, how we make routine expressive of our lives. "Today I decided to get a cappuccino instead of drip coffee," seems a rupture in the daily ho-hum, something note-worthy. For the past months I've fallen into this comfortable trap, I've lost the allure and hunger for creativity and a voice. In a London museum I found myself again. On a plane departing from England and destined for America, I dreamed of canvases and primary colors. I dreamed of the clicking of typing and the definition of words. How foolhardy of me to forget this necessity, this will to create.

There were no thorns in this discovery, Anne Sexton, but a finding. Thoreau is always right, it seems.

love,

your laura