The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

All is equanimity outside my window; a clement temperature and clean sunshine in place of last night’s rain. As for myself, I am of a similar disposition.

There must be a law in Leviticus regarding the acceptable circumstances for the stoning of irritating relations or something very near it, but my Old Testament thoughts were brought to higher ground by the vision of Hawkes in conversation with the lunatic.

I pulled Newton to my chest and held him fast with both arms. (Terribly romantic, if one adores deceased physicists.)

Forgive yourself for having let yourself down, even while you were holding others up.

I am not commanding you, rather I am establishing a benevolent dictatorship, in which a command may be given.

“Two paths now leading to a love; both true. A different shape of happiness to be found with each. Which path you take? Depends on many things. What you choose. What they choose. A thousand other decisions, or possibly very few. One you would love deeply. One you would love completely. One sharp as a knife. One a game of mirrors. One more difficult. One less free. Both inheritors to the line that refused to die when your first heart was buried.”

He reached for my hand, catching the edge of my palm and pressing his fingers around it. It felt as if he were dispelling the grip, dispensing with the uncertainty of the fortune, and placing a star in my hand.

I woke this morning feeling more like fresh, wind-blown linen. Which is to say cheerful, light, and a little wrinkled.

I like the day-to-day realities. Floors must be swept, tea consumed, and windows washed. Walks must be taken, and the purchases of ink (so very much ink) and twine and wood polish are to be made. It is not those things from which I wish to run away. Nor is it existence as a woman. I like being a woman. Now, would I rearrange several lopsided restraints? Of course. But my dissatisfaction of the moment comes from having a long list of mandates set by another, so long I cannot see the end of the shadow.

I have taken my insignificance for granted. One’s anonymity is not a thing to give away.

A smirking, misty, opinionated rain today. I woke too early and listened to the storm as I reminded myself that last night was the absurdity I remembered it to be.

“Gossip and meanness have a way of making one feel beaten down, but they themselves are of small origin. They have no character. So keep yours intact and carry on.”

It was almost unbearable, Pierce quoting Shakespeare. The joyful tang of an unexpected pairing. My new aim in life is to do everything possible to ensure it happens again.

A dreamscape, a sanctuary, the feeling of tangling with low clouds and grey wind. As I turned about, my hair whipped around, responding to the wildness. I couldn’t help but think, I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free.

Loss is never direct; it never finds a worn path. No matter how, or why. It throws one into the wilds with no path at all.

Later, as I lay in bed, I thought about the happiness of we four. How tangibles and intangibles held us together. How palpable the reality of life that something might crash through and change everything forever.

These long days out of doors feel like coming home to a place to which I’ve always held the key, but was told it should be put away. But, oh! There has been sovereignty of self in this place—of body, of spirit, of the intangible magic which sews the two together. To shout and run. To lie in tall grasses and watch the wind play the sunlight both true and false. To feel the building threat of rain and watch it crash to earth from the tenuous safety beneath a tree rather than from behind a window.

She motioned at the floor with exuberance. The carpet was pristine. Not a mark of the ink stain remaining, the original colours preserved. “We would not have done it on the Sabbath, Miss, except Mr. Stanley says removing stains is the work of the Lord.” Well. It is, I admit, a miracle.

Lifting a finger to the crevice in the wall, I knew. I knew that I would give the hope to Pierce, if I could. Every golden coin of it.