But really so much better.  I still have days when my feelings come up and I wonder how long it will go on, but those days are fewer and farther between, as they say.  Today I had a Reiki session and the practitioner asked me what was going on in my life (this was at Friends In Deed) and as I told her, I had a good cry and she said, “Wow, that’s a lot to handle all at once.”  And she said some other stuff that I can’t remember, but at the time felt good.  I don’t know why, but I am really happy that I have these feelings of sadness and that I can actually feel alive after so many years of feeling numb and never crying.  I used to be amazed when someone said, “Oh, I cried all night.”  Or “I couldn’t stop crying.”  I just didn’t get it.  Now I get it.  Now I have much more compassion and empathy.  

I just got a text message that my daughter, who works at “It’s A Grind” in Nob Hill, San Francisco.  She invented a vanilla-hazelnut latte and everyone likes it. I’m so proud! 

I don’t have time to write much, but the reading of “Scrambled Eggs” at the Berkshire Playwrights Lab was a big hit. The cast was brilliant, the lead was amazing, Amy Von Nostrand coudn’t have been better. She was everything I hope for in an actor playing the role. We got huge laughs, we see the ending needs work, I think I have a better idea how to fix it and also places I want to re-write. Matt Penn was a fantastic director, the theater was so beautiful, we had a large crowd (around 200), I laughed (and I never laugh at my own writing.)

Tonight is the first night of the solo show and I am very nervous/excited. I will write more tonight or tomorrow. Zoe’s in town and I haven’t seen her yet, I can’t wait to give her a big hug. I missed her so much.

Tomorrow is Zoe’s 21st birthday. She’s in San Francisco for the week to celebrate with her friends. I was reading some poetry and I found this poem, which seemed so fitting:

The Daughter Goes to Camp

In the taxi alone, home from the airport,
I could not believe you were gone. My palm kept
creeping over the smooth plastic
to find your strong meaty little hand and
squeeze it, find your narrow thigh in the
noble ribbing of the corduroy,
straight and regular as anything in nature, to
find the slack cool cheek of a
child in the heat of a summer morning –
nothing, nothing, waves of bawling
hitting me in hot flashes like some
change of life, some boiling wave
rising in me toward your body, toward
where it should have been on the seat, your
brow curved like a cereal bowl, your
eyes dark with massed crystals like the
magnified scales of a butterfly’s wing, the
delicate feelers of your limp hair,
floods of blood rising in my face as I
tried to reassemble the hot
gritty molecules in the car, to
make you appear like a holograph
on the back seat, pull you out of nothing
as I once did — but you were really gone,
the cab glossy as a slit caul out of
which you had slipped, the air glittering
electric with escape as it does in the room at birth.

Sharon Olds

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