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The Selected Works of Emily Shenandoah Brightwood WHERE I BELONG To everyone who loves her. The Selected Works of Emily Shenandoah Brightwood 2 TABLE OF CONTENTS “La Poesia” by Pablo Neruda . 3 Sarah’s Preface . .5 Emily’s First Poem . 7 Today Is Bewty . 8 Emily’s Guided Meditation . 11 Déja Vu . .. 12 Love is love and that’s that Papa’s Birthday Poem . 13 poems are the best way I Am From . 14 to pass the time Free Write . 17 and here is one right now: Excerpt from Poem “Last Breath—Ode” . 18 Emily Shenandoah Brightwood My Name . 20 4th Grade, 2006 | Age 9 In The Meantime . 23 Ode To Time Twixt The Sun . .. 25 A Simple Request . 27 The Storm Child . 28 Emily finger-painting. Down Deep . 31 Solana Beach, age18 months Playing The Game . .. 32 Lightning . 34 The paintings in this book are Emily’s, unless noted Cosmic Latte . 35 otherwise. Emily always loved painting and drawing. Aging . 37 She doodled on everything, including her Keds House By The Sea . 39 The Book Is Open . 43 sneakers and many willing friends’ arms and legs. The Taste of The World . 45 Her painting blossomed when she was 16 years Where I Belong . 47 old. She created all the art in this book in Free Write: Death—What You Think of It . 48 Smudging with sage her tenth-grade year when she was a student Sarah’s Epilogue . 51 on New Year’s Day, at San Domenico High School. Rancho La Puerta, 2003 Acknowledgments . 52 1 And something ignited in my soul, fever or unremembered wings, and I went my own way, deciphering that burning fire, and I wrote the first bare line, bare, without substance, pure foolishness, pure wisdom of one who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open. “La Poesia,” by Pablo Neruda, translated by David Whyte Emily writing at her bedroom window. Ashprington, Devon, England, age 9 3 SARAH’S PREFACE September 9 | 2015 y daughter loved words. She felt that she was a butterfly, and words were the rays of the sun drying off her fresh wings. Timeless chants poured through her from the age of two. Her Mmedicine songs were filled with wonder at the power and grace of the world. By the age of ten she had begun writing seriously, declaring that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. On the night she died in a car accident, crossing the threshold between life and death in an instant, barely seventeen years old, I stood at the doorway to her room, her presence everywhere around me, and asked her to guide me to her last words. On her desk beside her laptop I found the last poem in this collection, a first draft, handwritten just before she left the house, one she hadn’t shown me yet, “Where I Belong.” Emily belonged to this world, fiercely, with courage, will and determination. Her father taught her to pet bees when she was tiny; to gently and tenderly stroke their backs as they went upon their life-giving, essential work. Inevitably, one day when she was three years old, she was stung. As she wailed in my arms, I asked her this question, “Emily, is it better to pet bees with your eyes and not get stung, or to pet them with your finger and get stung?” With tears streaming down her face, through sobs, she cried with no hesitation, “It’s better to be stung!” These are her offerings, the joys and sorrows of living fully in the world, awake, adventurous and open- hearted. Emily, you are right, it is better to be stung. It was an honor and a privilege to be your Mama. I am so proud of your depth and breadth. May this book set the beauty and power of your words and paintings loose in the world to work their magic, and keep your bright spirit alive. With all my heart, Sarah Livia Brightwood Sarah and Emily Rancho La Puerta New Year’s Day, 2001 5 EMILY’S FIRST POEM May 9, 2003 | Age 5 Here is a poem to remember for many generations. Papa you are sweet, you are loving, you are a poem You’re everything you think you are. I love you Emily As soon as Emily learned to write phonetically, she offered us poems. After Emily died, we dug for buried treasure. Michael discovered this poem that Emily wrote in kindergarten. I discovered “Today is Bewty.” in a beaded blue journal from our first year in Devon. I imagine Emily, seven years old, perched on her second-floor bedroom Michael and Emily. window sill, deep as a seat in our old stone house, watching the spring Julian, California, 2001 sunlight flood the fields and forests around our village. 7 TODAY IS BEWTY Only one chance Spring 2005 | Age 7 For every day This poem rings from Emily like Today is beauty a great bell. It is Today is bright her true nature, Today I will try her creed, her With all my might banner. It is full of beauty, power and Sun is bright confidence like this Sun is beauty sunlit colt. Love is beauty But beauty is love Today is the right day Cedars and pines And poisonous vines Twine together To know who you are Is something much different Than to be who you are Colt on Dartmoor. Photographed by Emily, 2011 Step follows step Hope follows caring The timid with the strong 8 9 Last night Emily was very excited EMILY’S GUIDED MEDITATION and a bit nervous packing to go to England. She started doing January 24, 2008 | Age 10 yoga poses and sat in the lotus You are walking through a garden The water is deeper than you thought position breathing for about ten With flowers of all kinds around you You swim to the bottom without needing air minutes. I joined her for the last There are clouds above There is no mud few minutes of her meditation. And green grass beneath Just a few pebbles Big trees surround the edge of the garden Then you see the stepping stones “Do you want to do a guided There are no paths They are not stepping stones meditation, Mom?” Just grass They are pillars Of a great underwater city She told me to close my eyes It starts to rain Then you notice and then began to guide me Very lightly You see a gently flowing stream How many things and people with beautifully modulated voice, With lilies and stepping stones Are like the underwater city rhythm and pauses between You run towards it You can only see the top images. It was so smooth I stole a You start to cross on the stepping stones You do not know what is beneath peek because I thought she must Then you see your reflection in the water You swim around for a while be reading it, but she was looking You see a tired and troubled face looking back at you. Then you come up into the distance with such a You decide to jump in And walk over to one of the trees peaceful look on her face. You don’t bother to take your clothes off And pluck a ruby red apple The rain has started to stop Afterwards she asked if we could The water is surprisingly warm A frog jumps on your head When you are full write it down. She said it was Then you go underwater You take one last look around a blend of something she had Schools of silver fish swim past Then jump on a cloud heard and her own imagination. A little fishy swims right up to you You sail away All praise to our It gives a few happy bubbles Past the moon and the stars budding yogini! Then swims away Into a happy beginning. 11 PAPA’S BIRTHDAY POEM June 21, 2010 | Age 12 You walk through the sand breathing in the spray. Humming a long-forgotten tune. You stop and watch awhile, while the horses DÉJA VU canter in the waves. June 16, 2010 | Age 12 You dig your toes into the cold rough sand, A mistake. as the tide erodes A blurb. it around you. That’s all it was. You inhale and then release, A glance at the future or the past. a puff of warm A small wrinkle in time. in the cold grey sky. A fracture in the master plan. You observe the way you’ve come An overlap, and then the way you must go. to catch a glance Both ways hold perfect serenity, of a sight or sound unbreached by footprints you already knew. you thought you left. Someone up there didn’t smooth the page... That’s déja vu. Shells, Prismacolor pencils Cornwall, October, 2015 I am from dusty arenas and horses. I am from The Ranch, late nights and I am from the Dawn Treader, Pippin and Tom. From swaying forests that go on and on. Business calls. From trampolines, seed-copters, war memorials, I am from bodacious, wilderness, the untamed From parks, museums, And slow worms. And plains of nothingness. And antique Japanese stuff. I am from Ballet, Dartmouth baked I am from daydreams and no T.V. I am from sun, San Diego, and the beach. beans on toast, From pie, sitting alone, Santa Ana’s From surf camps, sand, pools and tandem. And prawn and cocktail. And sunrooms. I am from Spanish, Horatio, I am from muddy walks, farm roads, I am from layered bloomers, Cuyamaca Lake, And goldfish.