December 28th 1969
Today’s January 13th,1970 (sorry!) but the last few days of December I
remember. I drove Carol’s car to Anaheim. Slept over at Linda W.’s,
took a train to San Diego, met Hen, Diane (Diane on the train) &
Hair. Stayed at Hen’s. Went to a party, seemed to have fun the whole
week. Spent a couple days more in Anaheim, riding horses with Diana
after January first. I went to a party in Pasadena the evening of
January but was martyrly sick the whole time. I didn’t announce it cuz
Hen felt so crummy with her tonsils out. I got to know people better
though. . .
I would have written in here sooner but I kept
waiting for a convenient time. I didn’t want to write while I was in a
mood that wouldn’t let me feel comfortable with myself. This is the
closest I’ve come I guess because Hen left for the weekend and there’s
no pressure on me to be anything. Still—I might feel the same thing but
be in a different mood tomorrow and maybe read like a different person.
I hate to say it but I don’t believe that there is very much of
me in this five-year diary. It’s a record of my hang-ups and my
illusions. I’ve always been so overwhelmed by other people and
influences whom I am over sensitive to, that I have put up defensives.
Even in here you can sense that I’ve been afraid to open too
often—afraid of overwhelming myself with me.
That is something
I’d begin to do now but writing down what I go through everyday is not
what I want to do. I reflect too much as it is—I was a walking
diary—only a few notes written—never seeing myself whole. Five years of
having tiny spaces to write in kind of gets to you. It became an
influence on how I think.
I
might do a diary of drawings next. Depending on my moods I can express
myself better that way. Words are incapable of feeling
and when I really want to say something it is a feeling, not some
intellectual conclusion. This diary is so bare of drawings—I can’t
believe it! I’m going to change and open myself a lot more but it’s not
going in a diary that has an inch a day. Like this really is the end.
Writing is beautiful and free and revealing when it isn’t so structured
as this. I hope that I have come through occasionally. Me, Nancy. Who I
am matters to me—so I can matter tomorrow.
The poem "A Child Crying" speaks from the child in me, a child crying so that all God's children may be understood as souls seeking true expression.
A Child Crying
I cannot speak The words struggle But do not conform To my new mouth And those that emerge Are old... Scraped off pages Of a scrapbook.
If only my fingers Could reach Inside and find The thoughts that labor In my womb.
Children are confused By fallacy But Understand Truth.
October 18th, 1970
VA Hospital Veteran
On my weekends during my second year at UCLA, I liked to bicycle to
the Veterans Administration Hospital and visit with retired soldiers. I
befriended one. The following is how I described him in my journal
after our first meeting on Sunday, November 15, 1970:
He
was seemingly blind, from gazing for hours at the sun. He leaned like a
tipped statue against a clump of poles in the middle of an empty field.
Nearby, two elderly men were doing their wash in big outdoor tubs and
setting it out to dry. I drove by on my bicycle and turned around,
slowly rolling across the field, as though drawn by an invisible cord,
to where this lone man stood. So surreal was his world, I entered it to
learn about God.
Never once did he stop trying to see the
sun. His wrinkled, blistered face jerked from side to side; his eyes
blinked and moved constantly. His face was a contorted squint—but his
soul fought every moment to stare at the sun regardless, every muscle
in his cheeks struggling between command and reflex. And his eyes,
short, blond crusted eyelashes, ever blinking, mucus rising up and over
his pupils, his eyes watery, the opposite of tears. His lips were
flaked with scabs, toothless. His clothes were almost dust, and stuffed
into his belt was an old book wrapped in a rag—a book that looked as
though it had survived deserts and storms. A relic. His boots were
floppy, untied, the soles falling off…big boots that had climbed
mountains and tried to breathe in thin air.
“Sir, what are you looking at?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Why are you staring at the sky?”
“Well, I look into the sky because it is eternal.”
“What do you mean?"
“It goes on forever."
"But looking at the sun is hard to do for very long."
"Yep. Looking at the sun. How do you spell sun?"
"S-U-N."
"That's right. The sun. S-U-N spells sun. The sun is full of life."
"But why do you look at it, really?"
"For you."
"It’s awfully bright. It can hurt your eyes. Are you blind?"
No answer.
"My boyfriend is blind. He can't even see light. Can you see?"
"What time is it?"
"Oh, about 9:30 or 10:00."
"I've got a lot more time."
"How long are you going to look at the sun?"
"Till 11:30, when I go to dinner."
"What do you do after dinner?"
"I go play pool or I read."
"It must be hard to read if you stare at the sun all morning."
"You don’t have to worry about me staring at the sun."
"Are you are having a battle with the sun?"
"Could be. The sun is pretty strong. I am going to keep staring at it."
"I don’t know anyone who has stared at the sun as long as you have. I think you are winning."
"Maybe. Maybe I have won."
When I left and said goodbye, he raised his arm to begin a gesture, and slowly let it drop.
Musing--my
innermost voice speaks to me in symbols. These moments are the closest
I have come to myself. Like the feather in my hand—a free thing, yet
neither my hand nor the feather is free until it is dropped, and so do
I write.
I am not one to seek my soul or ever find it in simple,
contemplative meditation alone. The closeness comes gloriously and
through pain—applied concentration. Like riding my bicycle uphill into
the sun, into wind, pedals turning slowly wheeling--may my body share
my soul’s exhilaration!
When I write, I stop wanting to cry. This paper dabs my laughing tears And my crying tears And my eyes to see if there are any there at all.”
