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9:15 a.m. - 2020-09-20
Mermaid Room
Like ET was lured with Reece's Pieces, I found my way back to the soft folds of Diaryland through a message from someone I don't know that arrived by email. Happenstance? Probably, but here I am surveying the landscape that saw me through so many pivotal life events, beginning with my father's death. i reread messages from so many of you that were so intimate and affirming, they made me cry. Anyway, here I am. For those who remember me, thank you for being such a keen life witness to someone who, were you to pass on the street, you would not know. And yet you knew in a way those surrounding me did not. For those who do not know me, I look forward to the opportunity of sharing our lives. I can't guarantee I won't disappear again. Life has seasons. But I hope to send out some roots here. I know this is a land of kinship, familiar and strange. Welcome to my diary, which is like saying welcome to my soul. Thank you for being here and caring to read.

I sit in a room surrounded by memories. Each a touchstone to some magical place in time. Each precious. There is the threadbare duck who accompanied me at three as I was hospitalized for virus pneumonia. There is a hard wire protruding from his cheek, no doubt hard earned by my baby fingers seeking solace. There are Donovan albums with mystical covers and seagull songs. Collections of ee cummings. Seashells, seastones and sea glass. An award for baton twirling made of blue construction paper, glitter and ribbon, issued by my best friend at the time, Toni. There are brightly colored pillowcases of Noah's Ark, from my first apartment. Photographs, some framed, some stuck behind stained glass hearts and moons. And there are mermaids, far as the eye can see! I call this my "Mermaid Room". This is where I plan to continue my diary, after a long hiatus. This is the portal. It is where I seek God's face every morning, sometimes more successfully than others. It is where I cry into a huge stuffed elephant named Frankie, who I fell in love with at Ikea, carried around the store and could not leave without. It is where I dream and where I sit in stunned silence. It is where I am grateful. It is where I gasp for breath. It is my cocoon from which I do not always emerge a butterfly. It is shelter. It is private. It is healing. It is my Secret Place of the Most High. It embraces me without reservation, however I appear. If this room could talk ...

Wait. Maybe it can ...

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