“Turn to me, I tell all the young women in my house, the ones who are me, the ones who are resemblances, archetypes, versions. The one who isn’t. And the other one, too.”

Yesterday we were down in Sechelt for errands and appointments. I had to pick up a book I’d ordered at Talewind Books. And look, my name on the window! I’d seen a bookstore post on Instagram where one of the people working at the store was holding a copy of my book in front of the window. I was thrilled. And then later, I noticed the writing on the window. (Am I slow or what?) And looking just now, I see a whole display of my books in the window too! This is what community means. That you write a book, that the bookstore you’ve known for decades supports it, even agreeing to sell copies of the book at the launch next Friday at the Sechelt Library (and libraries, oh, them too!), that book clubs invite you to come to talk about your book, that one of the friendly women working in the bookstore reviews your book on her blog, and that when you encounter a friend in a clothing shop, the saleswoman hears you both talking about your new book and wonders if she could attend the launch too.

This morning I was awake early, wondering what to read for the next few weeks of readings. (You can check the book’s page here for news of events and if you’re able to attend any of them, I’d love to see you there.) There are three strands that thread through the book, sometimes braiding themselves together, sometimes just two of them entwining briefly, and sometimes the pattern is complicated, and sometimes it’s as simple as a stitch to repair an old seam that’s come apart, fraying a little. There are reproductions of several of the paintings hanging in our house or in another house, images that have a place in the narrative and even on the cover. I think they serve as reminders that things that have caused pain or even shame can also be gifts. I see them this way now though I haven’t always. When I came down the stairs from my bedroom this morning, I stopped to look up at the portrait of a young poet who serves as one of the strands of the complicated story and I met her eyes. I wasn’t always able to. How to suggest these things in a reading, how to choose passages that allow a reader to understand the difficult and beautiful legacy I realized as I wrote this book. John moved one of the big red chairs to a place on the lower level of the deck beyond our bedroom. I saw it as I was getting ready for bed last night. Later this morning I think I’ll sit there with my book and select moments that might tell something of what it means to encounter your younger self, to listen to her, and to learn something of the art of looking back.

Turn to me, I tell all the young women in my house, the ones who are me, the ones who are resemblances, archetypes, versions. The one who isn’t. And the other one, too. Turn to me. On my walls you are beautiful, as you were then and still are, burnished by time’s soft-edged brush. There is so much in your future and I am waiting for you, waiting for you to turn and remember me, as I remember you.

Turn, I will ask the young poet with flowers in her hair, you who have kept a certain privacy for decades, watching me descend the stairs, you who also watched me climb them, weary or joyous or lost in thought. I carried sorrow up the stairs and down them too. I felt your gaze in the ascent and the descent. Watch me. Watch me open my hands, releasing the shame I carried, hidden mostly but always a weight, an unnecessary guilt. I took off my clothes and I am commemorated with Cadmium Yellow lightened with Flake White, Alizarin Crimson, Prussian Blue, Viridian, Chrome Green. The warm light shimmering with Titanium Buff, Yellow Ochre. My hair, Thalo Blue, Thalo Green, Alizarin Crimson, Indian Yellow, underlayered with transparent yellow. On the Irish island, I walked on the rocks in grey mist and wrapped my arms around my body to contain myself. “Let a body venture at last.” At last I am at least unwrapping the veil, shaking the words from its fine gauze. What happens next, happens. There is no one now to hold me in that fierce gaze, as dangerous as it was loving.