I grew up in Minnesota, where the winters were hell and the summers were so glorious that we forgot about the winters. This became a metaphor for my life; bury the pain in snow drifts so deep that even cars with chains on tires can’t get through. But be patient, wait for a time when the snow begins to melt, and the things that were locked in the impenetrable cold will soon be memories, breaking off in pieces and rushing down icy rivers to storm drains toward the ocean. And the lilacs will return with their intoxicating scent.
Recovering what I buried is a process I’m still undertaking and it may never be complete. The writing here helps me express what I’ve kept hidden and is part of healing what’s broken inside. Writing melts the ice.