ramblings

Sometimes I write things that I don't want to go through the effort of formally publishing, but I do think some folks might like to read. If you really love what I'm doing with words and in the world, this space is for you. 

Thank you. 

Jack “Ti Jean” Kerouac, my first entry in this journal, and I am at your grave in Lowell. I have finished a graduate program in English and your life is the one I want to honor. And I want to show you gratitude as well. Without your novels, I’m not sure I would’ve found myself. I certainly wouldn’t’ve found my freedom, which is what led to my true independence.

It's a windy day. The kind that nearly knocks you over. The cemetery is peaceful and the stretched out cotton ball clouds are moving steadily across the bluest sky I’ve seen in weeks. Truly. I know cemeteries are quiet places, but I am always in awe of just how quiet they are.

There is a man pacing the block where you rest and I can’t help seeing you in his stout frame and white-headedness, wearing a plaid shirt and black slacks. Your uniform to a T.

I have never felt so comforted by a grave. I am leaning into your 2014 memorial marker the way you lean into loved ones you’ve missed for longer than you’ve ever missed someone. Thank you for being my comfort. For teaching me that there is something wholly human about misery and that running from pain is impossible, so we might as well sit with it. I’m not naïve. I know that you struggled to learn this yourself, so your novels saved me at least half a lifetime of pain. But, like Ginsberg said to you and I’ve claimed, “We got too much else to do besides suffer.”

An aqua mylar balloon floats stringless over my head and nearly into the old maple, maybe sycamore – I can’t tell from here – that was probably young when you were young. It floats in and out of sight and I think about letting go. Letting go of suffering. Letting loss be part of the cycle and not such a heart-stopping tragedy. Letting go of endings so that new beginnings can flourish in that compost of life, the turnover.

Grad school is brutal. I’ve rarely written for myself in two years and now, at your grave, the feelings pour out like water over rocks.

I am grateful.

I am grateful.

I am grateful.

This balances all the hateful bitterness I’ve carried over a lover who scorned me when I needed him most. The first person I trusted with my heart since the boy who brought me to you. The man who gave me the cat I named for you. Ti Jean. You would adore him. And here I can let go of the hatred to make space for gratitude – because we got too much else to do besides suffer.

I came here alone. My first proper road trip alone, at least this first leg. This feels only right, only appropriate. This is a moment I needed to experience unrushed, in solitude.

Have people always walked in graveyards here? For exercise? Or is this something the new millennium has brought us? I ask because a nurse walked by. Your elderly ghost seems to have gone home. But I figure if you haven’t been reborn or redistributed into a dozen different lifeforms by now that you still haunt this town yourself. I know your legacy lives on. You still inspire so many. Myself included.

I am grateful.