The poetry group that I’m part of Poetry Under the Paintings, held at my friend Jody’s gallery Faustina’s, was invited to read last night for another poetry group last evening. It was held in the library that taught me to love libraries, the library where I read my way, alphabetically, through the great literature (and the lousy!).

Actually, I can’t say that’s the best way to absorb books, all of an author, one right after another… Russian novels are confusing enough one by one, five in a row? Ridiculous. But it suited my associative little brain and my devouring urge for more.

Until I started writing, I hadn’t realized how poignant this visit would be for me. I wrote about the river, I wrote about the rock, I wrote about the house I grew up in. It made me think about what I loved about living here, why I left, why I came back. It made me realize I’ve been avoiding Bloomsburg since my sister died. It made me remember how final death is and how that changes your memories.

It made me realize how incredibly lucky I am now and I was then. If we choose, memory is sacred and so is the making of new ones. Writing changes me for the better. It keeps me searching to identify my Peace. Lucky me. Peace is where we find it. Peace is where we make it. I choose then. I choose now. I choose Peace.