Come Slowly, Eden!

I always bring old journals around with me. Yesterday I re-read an entry from 2011: I was in the emergency room with a panic attack, three metal knobs adhered to my chest, the ECG machine translating my heartbeats. The nurse had to check for everything, just in case. One of the tests was to push her hands away. “Push away. See if you can do it. Harder. Push away.” 
That’s the source of my panic attacks; the pushing away, the separation anxiety. The three metal knobs over my triumvirate heart. I was tied down to the paper bed with wires. The ECG lied to the nurse. “You’re perfect!” She announced. When she removed the knobs, the machine thought I had died.
There are wonderful journal entries too. One day in 2007 I was sitting at my desk writing. My older daughter came running up the spiral stairs to my room. “Mommy! Look!” Her hands were cupped around something delicate. She held the cage of her fingers in front of my face, then released a large white moth just inches from my eyes. 
What a gift she gave me, a gift that only lasts a few wing beats. 
Here I am peeking into my bag. Sean made me a bunch of bags for farmers’ markets – this particular bag (pictured above) is decorated with Dickinson’s Apotheiosis, a poem that serves as the anthem and natal song of my time with Sean:


          Come slowly, Eden!
          Lips unused to thee,
         Bashful, sip thy jasmines,
         As the fainting bee,

          Reaching late his flower,
          Round her chamber hums,
          Counts his nectars — enters,
          And is lost in balms!


Most of my farmers’ market bags have Rossetti’s poem “Goblin Market” written on them:
“Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.

Both poems demand the reader to come; to come slowly, to come buy. Sean always says, “Come, come, Little One.” I much prefer the coming to the going. 12 weeks until I leave Oxford for Boston. 

See if you can do it. Harder. Push away.

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