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. and headlands. Hikes and climbing boulders. From tea shops, Dartmoor ponies, B & B’s I am from stickers in a drawer, Summer Dog I am from spicy, plain, and piles. And from heather, gorse, and bracken. And fairy pancakes for a circle. From crunch, fresh cut carrots, and salad. I am from Quartz, tree climbing, I am from tastes, picky to perfection and I am from the earth, connecting And hours spent in the dirt. New flavors, In every way I can. I AM FROM I am from magic, make believe and water. From free range chicken, Mexican rice A leaf collection, broken porcelain, and fajitas. A pound found, September 12, 2010 | Age 12 I am from unknowing, new family, I am from fud, toad food, and Fred. Under a rainbow. And culture. Everything everywhere I am connected. From traveling the world, castles, I am from cold nights, long days, A twin in a Berber village, I am from adventure, exploration Millions of gardens, wet muddy fields My mark on a distant mountain pine. Heat and grass. And natural wonders. From apples thrown from a window. I have roots everywhere. From the blistering summer sun, I am from Christmas, Thanksgiving, I am from pelting rain, the earthy smell A million faces of family Cracked earth and a splintery wooden porch. And homemade Hallow’eens. of dirt and rot, And friends, I am from dried grass in my field From meditation, quiet, and inner peace. From green and hedged lanes. That fade with time and then And collecting bugs in jam jars. From the theory learn fast, I am from endless fields, amazing sunsets Reappear with provoked memories I am from questions, wood smoke, yarrow, Understand more, sand paper letters, And hidden beaches. And déja vu. From a snow-covered ground and lady bug plants. Animals and respect. From Blackpool Sands, pubs, trees Only to fade away into I am from imagination I am from paint and a chisel, And the Dart. The corner of my mind. And hours spent under a porch. “Up On the Roof,” I am from dripping leaves, moss A thousand summer days, I am from the pumpkin’ and tadpoles. And nailing stump. And seasons. that dissipate into Love and hate, and a hideaway. I am from the moors, warm rooms, The tapestry of my life. And ironing beads. From radiators and the gurgles, From smelly pens, jet lag 14 And story tapes. 15 FREE WRITE When Emily was thirteen she began September 8, 2011 | Age 13 to turn inward and write about death and loss. She was very curious about It was night time. The stars bright in the sky. In the time, mythology and the great arc of wood there was a girl who ran like the wind. But existence beyond what we see with our now she was quiet as she went on her way. She held human eyes. She absolutely understood the power of symbol and was inspired a bone as white as a clean plate in her hand. She endlessly by nature’s elemental forces bent down and laid the smooth bone on the damp of birth, death and regeneration. She earth next to an old root. She stood up and made struggled to find her place with the her way back through her fence, up her yard, where human counterparts of these forces: years had passed since she had played games there. broken hearts, cruelty, betrayal, love and In her house she went upstairs and to bed. redemption. She began to write short stories and read extensively across many She hoped she had made amends. genres.

At fourteen, she wrote the first draft of a novel and it grew and evolved with her, nearly complete at her death. She had two teachers that sometimes began class with a prompt for a free write. I have selected two of her free writes and this is my favorite.

Croatia, October, 2008 17 Emily was very aware of our interconnectedness. She loved this wondrous and generous earth and all the forms of life that arise from it. Her generation lives with an awareness of its fragility, like no generation before. They are encouraged to fall in love with the earth and then are told that it is all endangered. This grief and responsibility are spiraled inside their hearts.

EXCERPT FROM POEM “LAST BREATH—ODE”

September, 2011 | Age 13 It starts and ends with a breath Opposite doorways that make a whole One lifetime to complete the circle

One clap in the dance of the soul. Colored marker on paper 19 © Emily Brightwood MY NAME When people are told my name first comes the look. September, 2011 | Age 13 The contemplation. They taste the bitter sweet of the lozenge before spitting it out, “What a name.” My name is as unique as a spark that flies from a Unusual, idiosyncratic, awkward, homely. A name. I hot forge. It dazzles as bright as a star but for just a don’t know what people think. moment, before burning out. It is the number five, Some find it hard to understand, a type of jargon. For chubby but stretched out. A deep dark red, coated in others my name is a simple elaborate dance of letters, a a fine soot. A light blue, hazy with silver fog. It is the clap and a stomp, a twirl and a bow. It means fire and sound of a soloist playing a foreign instrument, low safety. Emberleigh. and high mixed together into a melancholy lozenge used for sore throats. Everywhere I find a new version of my name spilling out of people’s mouth, like tar. It sticks to their It floated around out there, somewhere, collecting mouths and clogs their tongue. Befuddled apologies meanings until I snatched it and presented it to my and requests for reiteration. Each mistake sits like an Mom. I feed it with knowledge and creativity afraid ember, burning with embarrassment until I wave it that it will leave me. Empty. away. “I’m used to it,” I say. I was named for myself, and to be yourself is the I have always been the odd one. My name makes it greatest challenge of all. There are no old foot holds in even more obvious. N. That is the letter of our family. the climb to individuality. If you fall you will land in Nathan, Ebn, Lumin, Erin...Emberleigh. It breaks the Leigh is the Old English word for valley. Emberleigh, the sticky bog of normalcy. The risk of not being able flow. Muddies the water. Ember, Em, it doesn’t matter “ember of the valley,” is the name she chose for her passage to get back up again looming over. how you put it. It’s always wrong. Somehow. into middle school. Emily, Emberleigh, Ember, Em. She was It was made up. An idea that grew, pushed its way known and loved by all these names. Despite it all I am my name. Or at least, I feel like from the back of someone’s mind before falling out my name. However if I were to change it I would go of their mouth and landing with a thud. It picked for something fragrant. Something that rolls off the itself up and dusted off the dirt but was still dented, tongue like honey. A jasmine breeze in the summer, misshapen. Ember of the Valley desert wind, tropical blue. Rich and elegant. July 28, 2012 21 IN THE MEANTIME

February 12, 2014 | Age 16

Let’s huddle on the beach and listen to the waves tousle the shore, continuing to be faithful even though the sand pushes them away at every attempted kiss.

Let’s run through a hundred dandelions and make a thousand wishes.

Let’s put flowers on someone’s grave so they can continue to be beautiful.

Let’s look at the world through a kaleidoscope making the ordinary extraordinary.

Let’s take each others hands and find the bravery to lose sight of the shore so we can cross the ocean.

Let’s live without insecurity by not comparing our behind the scenes to other people’s highlight reel.

Let’s be the two little nuts that held our ground so we could become mighty oaks.

Let’s not wait for the storm to be over, instead let’s tap dance with the rain.

Let’s pursue happiness for the journey, not for the destination.

Let’s turn our “can’t’s” into “can’s” and our dreams into plans.

Let’s not count the days, let’s make the days count. Let’s live a life of “oh well’s” instead of “what if ’s.”

Let’s be the change we want to see. Let’s believe that we will do whatever we were made to do.

Berkeley Botanical Gardens April, 2012

23 ODE TO TIME TWIXT THE SUN

Date Unknown

I’m tired of waking up with the sun. I want to rise with the moon, Feel her alabaster blush Wash over me. I want to wake to the trillions of Diamonds embroidered, By the most nimble fingers, Into the onyx tapestry of the universe. I want to sigh at the sight of its vastness And contemplate my own insignificance. I want the darkness to shroud me In a personal inky cocoon As I stretch my arms from east to west Like I could pick up the sky To carry with me when I feel alone. I want to sit in a bath of cold starlight

At Wind ‘n Sea beach the And dream of people I’ve never met. day before Emily cut her hair. They would whisper me tales of their time in this world, Photo by Pat Harrison. Would lay them like a patchwork quilt La Jolla, California, 2009 Across my mind. And I would keep them there to comfort me Because everyone’s stories seem sweeter than mine.

24 25 A SIMPLE REQUEST

November 6, 2014 | Age 17

I reached for a pen I don’t need to work to make myself worthy I laid down some paper I don’t have to earn a penny I paused for a second No need to grow up in a hurry My mind on a caper That’s not too much to ask, surely. My imagination beckoned A world of Magic My world would have just my thoughts Mystery and me Miracle to populate its mountains and dells Something to escape Nothing to pretend to be from the pain of the Physical. No need to hide in a shell. A place where my dreams were reality A vast blue sky Somewhere I could live serene solitude in which to fly To evade practicality a multitudinous sea I don’t want a utopia, what’s the fun in that? and me. No, a place of darkness and danger That’s what I crave Then I looked at my pen Somewhere I don’t suppress my anger held to the paper On the first full moon after Emily’s death, I want to show I am brave. That’s when I realized my thoughts Dave Zaboski gifted me this watercolor But I also want to be wanted Were just an ink stain on paper. which was inspired by my vision of Emily flying on a winged horse Needed over an expansive sea. And understood with love I don’t want to be reluctantly dealt with By a hand protected by a glove. A world where I don’t need to be fixed I’m me and that’s plenty 26 27 THE STORM CHILD

November 3, 2014 | Age 17

nce, there was a small house in the forest. sister. By chance they stumbled upon the clearing. They “Don’t you have parents who will be worried Storm Child scattered into a million pieces. Before It was covered in moss and made of old were cold and hungry and when they saw the smoke about you?” the children knew what happened a gust of wind took Owood. You’d never see anyone go in or out and curling out of the cabin they decided to go see if they “No,” said Hate, “our parents are stuck in a box the pieces and scattered them all about the world. A all was quiet in the clearing in which it sat. The only could sit by a fire and possibly get some food. As they somewhere.” few pieces swirled into the hair of the boy and girl and sign that someone lived there was a thick plume of approached they saw a curious thing, a small cloud “I’m sorry.” their minds became stormy and they shouted with smoke that rose from a stone chimney. Wind blew the slowly floating out of an upstairs window. There was a “That’s all right,” said Anger cheerfully, “we live Anger and Hate at each other before storming off. trees around the clearing making the leaves fall and tree nearby so they climbed it wanting to see what was with our Aunt Envy.” They went home to their Auntie and the next day, on trees swish but the house stayed silent. If you’d looked upstairs. As they clung to the tree, they peeked into the “But we ran away,” said Hate. their birthday, they indeed went out into the world through the thick glass windows you’d have seen a cozy window and saw a bed covered by a cloud that slowly “Why?” asked the Storm Child. and spread their Hate and Anger fueled by the Storm room with a warm sofa and a rocking chair, a small rose and fell as if someone was sleeping under it. Being “Because it’s our birthday tomorrow,” said Hate. Child. As other pieces of the Storm Child settled table, and book shelf all lit by the glow of an orange curious children they climbed in through the window. “And we have to start working on our birthday,” about the Earth they landed on people. From then on fire. You would have seen the old rocking chair moving At once the Storm Child woke up but, of course, they explained Anger. those people carried the pieces in them. But a piece slowly back and forth but no one sitting in it. But there couldn’t see the child. “What do you have to do?” of a Storm is not something for a human to carry and was someone there. It was old Mother Storm knitting “Who are you?” the Storm Child asked. The children “Bring Hate and Anger to the world,” said Hate. it clouded their minds and gusted coldly into their a cloud blanket for her Storm Child asleep upstairs. weren’t scared so they answered. “What does that mean?” asked the Storm Child. hearts. And because Anger and Rage were the first to If you’d have kept watching you’d have seen the wind “My name is Anger and this is my sister Hate. Who “That’s the problem,” said Anger, “we don’t feel that way, the feelings were named after them. outside die down and all become perfectly still. The are you?” know yet.” Of course the next day Mother and Father Storm old wooden door would have quietly blown open and “I am the Storm Child, what are you doing in my “I suppose we’ll have to make it up as we go along,” found their Child was gone and were heartbroken. shut again. What you would not be able to see was bedroom?” shrugged Hate. They abandoned their cozy home to look for their lost Father Storm slowly trudge in, looking weathered after “We got lost and saw your house.” “But that’s why we ran away, because we don’t want Child. So when you hear the wind raging about your another long day of storm making. You would not see “There was a cloud floating out of your window,” to grow up and have to work.” house or rain pelting your windows, it’s Father and him kiss his wife on the cheek. You would not see him added Hate. “It sounds hard,” said the Storm Child who would Mother Storm searching, calling, and crying for their slowly climb the stairs and open the door to his Storm “That was last night’s blanket,” explained the Storm also one day have to take over for Father Storm. “I Storm Child. But you can help; when the weather Child’s room. You would not see him quietly cross Child. don’t want to grow up either.” “We should run away turns mean outside and you feel stormy inside, step the carpeted floor to plant a breathy kiss on the top of “You sleep with a cloud?” together!” said Hate and Anger excitedly. The Storm outside under the rough sky and take three long, deep his Child’s head and gently lay the new cloud blanket “Yes, of course, would you like to feel this one?” The Child agreed and threw off the cloud blanket. breaths. Breathe out your Hate and Anger. You will over the Child before releasing the old one back out children got up and touched the cloud being held out The three climbed out the window, down the tree feel a weight leave your chest. That’s your bit of Storm the window. You wouldn’t be able to see it but that was to them by invisible hands. and made their way back towards the woods. But the Child escaping. It doesn’t want to be inside of you what he did, every night. Until one night. “So soft,” giggled Anger. Storm Child wasn’t supposed to leave the clearing and anymore than you want it to. Send it up into the wind Two children were lost in the forest, a brother and “Like a marshmallow,” said Hate. as soon as the three stepped out of the clearing the and back to its parents where it belongs.

28 29 DOWN DEEP

February 12, 2014 | Age 16

I have sunk down deep So the moonlight cannot reach me. I sit suspended in a palpable pain So coarse it becomes my pleasure. It lulls me into a sickening sleep Full of nightmares that eat away at my mind. My pain drowns me Like a rock tied to my heart. A painful tugging that rips me apart. I have scissors in my hand that I could easily use “A certain To cut myself free darkness but instead I use their sharp is needed To bring more pain to me to see the stars” So I can stay in the dark. — Osho The truth is I’m scared On Emily’s Scared of what would happen bulletin board If I floated up to the silvery glow And let myself be illuminated. I fear I would lose who I am Because in the pain, in the dark there’s no one to impress and No one to pretend for Self portrait. In the pain, in the dark Acrylic on canvas, You Are Who You Are age 16 And who I am is not what You think 30 31 PLAYING THE GAME

November 6, 2014 | Age 17

Everyone tells you How you’re supposed to feel So you don’t really know what is real My feelings swirl like a storm I’m blocking me out trying to conform

So if you ever find me out Don’t you dare fuss or pout My life’s in danger from the social disease Of not being yourself to put others at ease So don’t blame me for pretending My bag of falsities is unending I learned how to play the game So don’t hate me you’ve done the same

I needed to find something to hide behind So I build a mask That did the task But now I’ve lost myself behind the plastic And I need to think of something drastic To get out of this traffic jam And to rediscover who I am

Pencil on kraft paper, age 16 32 33 LIGHTNING COSMIC LATTE January 21, 2014 | Age 16 November 14, 2014 | Age 17

If the Sky darkens with dystopian drapes The anachronism of my existence plays on the lips of Let lavender ribbons of Rain cry down. the world like a kiss. It tingles and tantalizes, eliciting Let the Earth be purged. illicit pleasure that oozes from the cracks in the Delphic Let the crisp stationary be splattered. construct of the cosmos. An idiomatic expression taken Let mountains be eroded down to their core, literally, spoken by a curled tongue, a rhetorical question and let the mighty tors be swallowed in unable to inspire thought. roiling rivers. The unadulterated passion of Life strokes the frigid perfume of Death as they lie tangled in the profane But do not let the murky shadow webs of evolutional matrimony. Whilst we sit and lurk above our heads ponder our own insignificance, in the cosmic latte of the Whose foreboding presence silences Life unknown void, a tall spoon stirs together another swirl and burdens the Mind. of life leaving us feeling explicably trivial.

Instead have the heat of Life On a small planet in a small solar system And Death’s austere perfume revolving around a small star on the outer arm of meet in the halls of high Heaven. an inconsequential galaxy do not linger on your Let their fray be displayed misfortune; marvel instead at the sheer miracle of your as the bolts of white light creation. The odds were and never will be in your favor That saturate us with dismay on a planet where your very presence is superfluous. or unalloyed delight. Ponder your insignificance and wonder at the spoon that stirred you into existence.

“Cosmic Latte” is the name scientists use to Storm over the Sea of Galilee, 2012 34 describe 35the average color of the universe. AGING e had a visitation from a certain darkness when Emily was 12 years old. Date Unknown W She stopped growing, her hair began How fine, falling out, her joints ached, she was cold all the time a lovely loneliness and there were many foods she wasn’t able to eat. that ages like wine, Lyme Disease stole many joys from her life: ballet, quiet, horseback riding, soccer, softball, nourishing sleep and sweet and still, the deep, comforting communion of the kitchen and and time settles dining room table. easy, Puberty and illness had arrived like unwelcome guests. like dust They were a bickering couple that fought to be the floating center of attention and poisoned the air around them. on sunbeams It was a difficult journey for all of us. Emily’s poems in the heat became a place where she could write about pain and of a lazy loss and where she could hold the sky and fly free. The afternoon, ragged edges of Life meeting Death, and Light meeting slowly, Dark, dominated her inner imagination. slowly, slowly. Emily took giant leaps in her life. She moved fast but had an outer stillness and resoluteness beyond her years. She plunged into her dark night of the soul showing a brave, bright face to the world. The sun and clouds parted more and more often to let the light pour through.

Acrylic on canvas, age 16 36 37 HOUSE BY THE SEA

October 26, 2014 | Age 17

girl scrambles down a scree-covered cliff. the smoke, the salty, hollow scent of driftwood The sharp coastal grass cuts into her and something else, something sweeter. Once she A palms as she slips and slides over the gray reaches the top of the last dune she can finally stones. It’s too foggy to see what’s at the bottom see it; a bonfire surrounded by a small group of the cliff but if she stops for a moment she can of people. The flames illuminate a pale stucco hear the distant crash and roar of a cold ocean. cottage with seashells pressed into the walls. It She doesn’t think about where she’s going, rises tall and luminous, glowing in the combined just that she must get there soon. The fog settles light of the fire, moon, and stars. Behind the thickly around her like a damp blanket. It fills her house and all around is the crashing roar of lungs and clouds her eyes. A faint light flickering endless sea. The girl slides down the dune and through the haze pulls her forward. She takes makes her way towards the fire and music. As step after step, clinging to the merest tufts of she nears she can see that as the company dances grass. Knees bump into loose stones sending them around the fire they toss pages of a book into the cascading into the waves far below. curling flames. As they spot her they each give She takes a leap of faith toward the light. a cry of greeting but do not stop their dance. Her feet hit something that starts to give way. The girl hesitates, unsure of what to do next. She finds herself rolling down a cold sand dune. Whatever force had been dragging her forward When she stops she lies in the coolness of a had left her and all that remained was a hollow thousand crushed boulders and stares up into the place quickly filling up with questions. It dawns immensity of the sky. Needlepoints in the onyx on her for the first time that she doesn’t know tapestry of the night bathe the world in cold, why she’s here. The cold sand pricks her bare feet silver light. and a cool breeze blowing from the sea teases her She gathers herself up and makes her way face with a salty kiss that flushes her cheeks. A though the dunes and reeds that grow among woman who sits on a salt bleached log rocking them towards the light. As she nears it she can to the melody gestures for her to join. The girl hear merry voices singing and instruments being approaches, careful to not interrupt the revelers played, hear the prance of feet spraying sand and in their dance. She sits herself on the log and the crackle of a fire. Closer yet she can smell the woman offers her a blanket. As she sits and watches, smoke curls around her, unfurling in her “Jonsokbål,” by Nikolai Astrup,1912 to 1926 nose and coiling around her hair. 38 39 Painting property of the Norwegian National Museum (continued on next page) The complex dance continues, a stomp and fall leaving a trail of stardust in its wake. Make “How do you get rid of a name?” Two curious leads her towards the cottage. The House by a clap here, a twist and a twirl there. Weaving a wish, she thinks. But with a blank mind there eyes in the dark. Another white-toothed smile. the Sea. “Come, someone has been waiting for in and out of each other in a perpetual spiral is nothing left to wish for. Just as she is about “You release it, like a puff of smoke back to you.” Walking past the sand dunes and reeds, around the fire. Book pages glide in and out of to speak up the woman next to her produces whence it came.” The girl looks at the fire. The firelight receding behind, illuminating her back them like flower petals catching fire and shooting another leather-bound book, its pages yellowed, last few sparks twirl like ballerinas up and away. and casting tall, infinite shadows. The girl spots like rockets into the sky before burning out. The but only at the edges. She hands it to one of the Wild. Free. “Let us celebrate the new, forget the a patch of earth through the sand. In it grow girl watches swaying in time with the hypnotic dancers who have never ceased their movement. old. Here we move onward, always onward.” The bushes of white roses and rows of raspberries. rhythm of the music. Her eyes feel glazed over The music becomes louder and suddenly pages music starts, more Then she is at the and dry from the fire, her feet feel heavy and are gliding and fluttering again sending puffs of delicately this door, lifting a small slightly sore from plodding through the sand. ash and smoke into the air. The girl looks back time, each string metal latch, opening She feels her head nodding slowly lower as the up into the sky to see the falling star land and carefully chosen to the door. Inside darkness and dimply flickering light of the fire explode in a shower of golden light mingled ring out across the everything is aglow lull her into a sort of trance. As her eyes close with mist somewhere near where she came from. night, like the sea with moonlight. The questions start to flash across her eyelids. What Something feels peculiar about this. She has a plucking its story whitewashed walls am I doing here? Where am I? How did I get feeling shooting stars aren’t supposed to land but on the pebbles. glow brightly while here? Who am I? She shakes herself out of no one else seems the least bit phased. “Please, where the dark wooden the stupor and sits up. The woman next to her Nothing changes for a while. The dancers is here?” beams are a black watches with polite amusement as if she could dance, the pages burn, and the music plays. “You will ribcage stretched read her confused mind. Just as quickly as each Then, something does change. A boy. Walking understand when across the ceiling. question appears the seemingly obvious answer cautiously just as the girl had done. He comes to it is right for you To the left is a for each disappears until she is left without an the fire, driven, like the girl, to the light in the to. You already narrow but long answer even to the last question. Name, she sea of darkness. He sits and everything goes on. know, you have room with windows thinks, what is my name? The music rises to a Always onward. When the last page expands into been making your looking out to the crescendo. She feels a word perching on the tip the blackened sky everything stops. A tall but way here all your murky blackness of of her tongue. Its shape is familiar but before she graceful man walks forward to the two empty life, you just have to ask your soul.” Pulling her to the ocean. In the corner, by the windows, against can wrap her mouth around it, it leaps off into the children. “Names?” They both slowly shake foggy her feet the man leads the girl in the dance. Each the wall, sitting in a delicate white rocking chair night just as the last page of the book explodes heads, heavy, like in a dream. A white-toothed step sprays cold, smooth pebbles, each breath is a woman with skin like almond milk. A face into sparks in the dark sky. The girl furrows her smile expands in the darkness. “What a good laced with smoke, each glance glowing with fire, plucked from the fogginess of infancy, a picture brow. Name name, name she thinks but no name place to start. Names, the one word that fully each sound echoing with the ocean. As she dances on the mantelpiece. Her grandmother. She runs is coming. No names. describes who you are. Without it, who are you? her hollow self starts to fill. Her mind is soothed, towards her embrace, ready to be held by arms Her mind is empty. Without a name you can be anything, be infinite, her body is fulfilled, her soul opens. With a long since stilled in our world. They are warm. The girl looks up at the vastness of the inky be free. Freedom from a name is sparing your final stomp and shout and thrum she stops, her She knows she’s found home. sky just as one of the brightest stars begins to neck from the chain of life.” heart light and feet numb. A rough, warm hand 40 41 THE BOOK IS OPEN

November 6, 2014 | Age 17

The book is open in your lap, its white, bright pages splayed before you. For now the words lay flat on the page ready for your imagination to bring them to life. You are in a bright white, empty room. No. Not quite empty. At the other end of the room is a door. It’s your favorite color and seems to be glowing, drawing you towards it. You cross the floor and touch the knob. It feels warm and familiar but you can’t quite place why. Close your eyes. Imagine it. You are not here, you’re there. You walk to the door knowing there is something or someone behind it waiting for you. The handle is still in your hand, it fits perfectly. You turn it. A feeling of excitement is beginning to bubble up inside. The door swings in away from you. The light from the room behind you illuminates you, casting your shadow into the room ahead. You blink, trying to adjust your eyes to the darker room. You look around.

Self portrait. Acrylic on canvas, age 16

42 43 THE TASTE OF THE WORLD

February 4, 2015 | Age 17

Language is the Fruit of Knowledge. It takes will to reach, a firm tug to pull But once plucked the World opens like a pomegranate Like a microscope slowly coming into focus, Like the sound of a radio slowly fading in Meaning builds– Growing and colliding and forming beautiful harmonies you never knew existed. Your tongue is a kaleidoscope throwing syllables into new and fantastical shapes, Your ears are butterfly wings newly freed from the cocoon A mysterious song pulling you out of that dark incubation Feel each new, radiant word like the rays of the sun drying off your fresh wings. So eat from The Tree Indulge in this Mortal Sin devour the pomegranate’s ruby heart Because nothing has ever tasted so good. Marin County, 2014

44 45 WHERE I BELONG

February 4, 2015 | Age 17

I am hardly overwhelmed

By the dark of the Morning

or the glow of the Night.

Whether it is the Sun or the Moon

Whispering their sweet rhapsody

Into the majestic heavens

I find infinite quiet

In each wild moment

Knowing that I have a place

Here below the gleaming stars

And undulating clouds.

With my feet in the earth

And my arms outstretched

Embracing the Sky—

I belong. Climbing tors on Dartmoor Devon, England August, 2011 47 FREE WRITE: DEATH—WHAT YOU THINK OF IT

8th Grade Notebook | October 6, 2011 | Age 13

I felt a final squeeze in my hand. I tried to squeeze back but, too late. I was already gone. My last sensation was a wet drop landing on my arm. Then I was off. I tried to open my eyes but I felt too sleepy. It was like in a dream where you felt like you were supposed to be doing something but instead you went into REM state where you could feel the softness of your blankets and the feeling of yourself all curled up. I hugged my knees. I wasn’t cold, I just wanted to feel the tightness and comfort of the position. All of a sudden I felt myself rushing upward. But slowly, as if I was in water. Then my head breached the surface and my eyes snapped open. I heard cheering and laughing. My eyes adjusted to the warm yellow sunlight streaming in through an open door. I remembered that I was going to squeeze someone’s hand, so I did. I felt a hand squeeze back and looked over. My Grandma Ginny sat by my bed. She had died ten years previously at age 90. She said she’d stick around till 90 and she did. Then she died the next day. I looked at her again. She was smiling at me. She still looked old, but not as old. She looked about 80. I sat up, gingerly, and stretched my back. It felt better than it ever had. I looked down at the bed I was on. It was soft and springy with a floral bed covering. It used to be in my house in England till we moved. It had always been my favorite bed. I looked around the room. It was a calm rosy pink color, glowing from the sunlight. All my old friends were in there and they were all smiling.

Grandma Ginny and Emily at three months. 48 49 Tacoma, Washington, 1997 SARAH’S PREFACE

I had a dream when I was pregnant and still living in England.

I was on a high tor on Dartmoor. The wind was pulling a blanket of mist into the valley and I was calling the name “Shenandoah,” over and over; calling for a loved one with the certainty that they would come.

When I woke and shared my dream with Michael, we wondered about the meaning of Shenandoah and called Shenandoah National Park to inquire. “It means daughter of the stars in Cherokee,” they told us. We both had goose bumps and that is how Emily’s middle name came to us.

She blazed in and out of this world. She sparkled her brightest and made us look around and into the mystery of the unknowable. Every day I call to her from the lonely high places, my heart filled with longing. I throw my love to the heavens, just like we used to play catch on the sands of Muir Beach. I hear it smack into her glove and then she throws her love back to me, like a shooting star. Smoking. “Ouch,” I say, and shake my hand a little bit. “Don’t be such a wimp,” she calls back.

Emily, your glow still keeps me warm. Your laughter rings through the house of my longing. Marrakesh, September, 2014 I thank you for loving life.

51 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS And most of all I thank you Michael, Emily’s father, who championed her home school years. They were the happiest years of our life. I have been blessed with friends who freely gave their gifts It was my joy to watch you and Emily learn together. In first grade you and skills to the production of this book. A thousand thanks to guided her steps with fanciful exploration and storytelling and later Paco Link, Melissa Kurtz, Laurie Dietter and Peter Jensen. as we transitioned from England back to California you flew through To Chant and Susannah of Trillium Farm who offered their mentoring difficult subjects with mastery and humor so that we could be together and a place for Emily to learn important life skills, to write and and travel the world. At the age of fourteen, you and Emily built the to be immersed in the spirit of the wild. dome at Trillium Farm; a fine and comfortable home. She wore her I give thanks for Emily’s teachers in school and out. You are all in my heart. tool belt with pride and you showed her that everything is possible. Thank you Miss Lesley and Miss M, for tending her fledgling years. From the Namaste. very beginning she was held with gentleness, delight and grace.

Gratitude to the wonderful Miss Jean who was pure magic and fertile earth, to Tom Pether whom Emily adored beyond measure, Richard Clarke for his smile, flute and patience, Rose for her kindness and her ponies. Thank you for the sparkle in Emily’s eyes.

My enormous gratitude to the extraordinary teaching teams of Lance and Heidi at Spencer Valley School, Andrew and Deidra, Derek and Jen of Marin Primary and Middle School. She blossomed in your hands, petal by petal. And to Dave DeMartini, who led us on an unforgettable adventure in Ecuador. It was a pleasure to be part of your big hearted tribe.

To Ian Sethre, Madeleine Wood, Jill Hoefgen and Robin Huffman of San Domenico High School, you challenged her and she rose to the occasion, pulling herself up steadily just like biking up the slopes of Mount Tam.

To Devika Brandt in Marin County and Stephen Nutt in Devon, you enriched Yoga in the meadow. Emily’s home school years, with inspiration and depth. To Paul Agricola for Emily one year old Emily’s sweet hours at the piano and the music she shared with all of us. Julian, California, 1998 “Where I Belong” is an anthology of the writings and artworks of Emily Shenandoah Brightwood, 1997-2015, Mill Valley, California.

Edited and compiled by: Sarah Livia Brightwood

Additional artworks/photographs by: Paty Lopez, Pat Harrison, and Dave Zaboski,.

Book design by: Laurie Dietter, San Diego, California

© 2015 Sarah Livia Brightwood. All Rights Reserved. All images on all pages of this book, including designs, drawings, renderings, pictures, in whole or in part, are protected against unauthorized reproduction or electronic transmission by copyright law and international agreement, but may be used without written permission if credited to Emily Shenandoah Brightwood and if not for commercial gain. Any other usage of the images or written material must be preceded by written consent from Sarah Livia Brightwood. Thank you.

Published by: Bright Mountain Press P.O. Box1933 Mill Valley, CA 94942-1933

For more information on to order a copy of this book, please visit: EmilyBrightwood.com ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-62121-010-8 ISBN: Softcover 978-1-62121-011-5

Emily’s poem “Lightning” was previously published in “Between Light and Dark—Marin County High School Poetry Anthology 2014,” Marin Poetry Center.

“I Am From” was previously published in “River of Words—The Natural World as Viewed by Young People,” Poetry and Art From the Annual River of Words Contest, selected by Robert Haas, Thatcher Hurd and Pamela Michael.