My father called me “Treeshee” (don’t know how to spell that). He’s the only person on the planet who ever called me that. My relatives, at that time, pronounced my name, “Patricia,” like “Patreesha,” so I guess that’s where Treeshee came from.
I haven’t been able to write to you lately, because something else has been happening, some kind of internal swoosh of energy, like clouds of stars out there in the universe, needing to do its thing in silence. That sounds so self-involved and high falutin, but I’m guessing that we all go through galactic changes every once in while, so.
For some reason, I think I’ve told you, I decided somewhere along the way that my dad was a very bad guy. But I’ve come to realize that, though I know he had his faults, I think I cooked that bad-guy thing up as a way to distance myself from the trauma of losing him. I’m just beginning to remember exactly how much I loved my dad—like Maudie and I say to each other: “THIIIIISSSSS MUCH”—and I’m beginning to remember how devastated I was when he died. We never said goodbye, or got a chance to tell each other how much we loved each other. He was just gone one afternoon, when I got home from school. I was a kid, so I loved him, honestly, like Juliet loved Romeo. There. I said it. I was madly in love with my father at the time that he died.
So. I got a little damaged, being ten, and having no idea how to process such a devastating loss. I’m not exactly sad now, now that I have begun to look into this. What I do feel, though, and have always felt, is a sense of floating through that swoosh of universe so alone it’s like being re-traumatized moment by moment. It’s worst at night, when I’m alone in my house, the darkness pressing in. Maybe that’s the samsara we all long to be liberated from. I pray for the courage to sit in the fire of this present moment, at ease.