I love Emily Dickinson's poetry. Yes, it's macabre and delves into the parts of life that most would prefer not to consider. But the darkness is precisely what draws me to her writing. I sometimes think that Emily and I would be bffs. I am drawn to the unknown and there are times when I can just let my mind go to uncharted areas and it wanders to places that are sometimes upsetting. Is it the sense of isolation I sometimes feel that forces my thoughts into these strange places? Is it that I've grieved a lot in the years that I've lived -- the loss of fertility, the loss of parents and in-laws, who I loved dearly, and then the loss of my husband, marriage and what I believed was a stable, comfortable life.
Life is so strange. It can be ugly. It can rewarding. It can be beautiful. But mostly it's mystifying. I've been hearing a lot lately about leaning into the mystery. I have been leaning into the mystery my whole life unsure of what lies right around the corner. Right now I want to know what lies around the corner because frankly this mystery is wearing me out. I want certainty. I want to know that there are no goblins lurking at the bend in the next leg of this journey. I just want someone or something to assure me that the coast is clear -- at least for a bit -- and that this mystery thing is ebbing for a while. I want to know that every one is safe. My daughter will behave. My home will be tranquil. No one will be sick. World hunger will stabilize and that damn Taliban will just stop for a while.