In class one Saturday, we read "The Journey" by Mary Oliver. I could see on her face that Laurie loved it as much as I did. We were kindred spirits from that moment on.
The Journey--by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
After the semester ended, we began a friendship that transcended our thirty-year-age difference. We often stayed up late talking. Something about who Laurie was, maybe even partly the age difference, surely her passion for writing--something moved us from student and teacher to confidantes and sister-travelers under sheets of clouds we both knew.
When I casually mentioned to Laurie that I'd been invited to lead a writing workshop in Tuscany twelve years ago, she said, "I'm going!"--and she did. Ten women traveled to Tuscany for the workshop that--I must admit--wasn't much of a writing workshop at all, but more of a group of writers who soaked up as much of Tuscany as we could in a week. (Nellie and I had gotten an early start already.)
Once we got ourselves settled into the villa in Montepulciano, we did a tiny bit of writing, but we were all so gobsmacked with the beauty of Tuscany, the tastes of Italian food and wine, and the winding stone streets of Tuscan villages, that we all surrendered our initial plans and gave ourselves over to a different kind of trip.
I was struggling to read road signs, change gears, and maneuver the car in fast Italian traffic, difficult considering my noisy passengers. Suddenly, horns began blowing and hands began waving all around us, and we pulled off the road to discover that I hadn't released the emergency brakes. Smoke was billowing out of the car and there we were--four English-speaking women looking for a mechanic who could tell us what to do. Laurie and Amanda, with their limited Spanish, managed to cobble together some sentences that the Italian mechanic could understand. Finally, he said--in effect: "Just park it for a while and let it cool off while you drink a glass of wine." So we did, no damage done!
A year later, Laurie (then a mother of three) moved to Massachusetts for three years to attend Smith College, then back to San Antonio. Two years ago, I nominated Laurie for poet laureate of San Antonio--and attended her installation. In her acceptance speech, she read lines from the poem by Mary Oliver, and she mentioned that Palo Alto class. We both had tears in our eyes that night.
Sometimes lives diverge like those two roads in a yellow wood. Sometimes even the best of friends, who mean to keep trekking along together, wind up taking different roads. I had grown children, grandchildren and a teaching career, Laurie had young children and a passion for writing poetry. We drifted apart, as good friends so often--and regrettably--do.
Tonight, Carlene and I watched Laurie's excellent talks at Ted X and Texas Lutheran College, and I realized how much I missed her! I felt a mix of Mama-Hen pride in her many accomplishments and regret--regret that I hadn't been a closer part of her journey these past few years. I ran quickly to the laptop to write and tell her I hoped we could soon see each other again....
http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/What-I-Learned-From-My-City-%7C-L;search%3ALaurie%20Ann%20Guerrero
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