When Mad Megs Apologies, At Least She Does It With Style And Grace

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The morning after the day Megs decided I would look good in cement shoes, she showed up at my door about 8am. I had just made a fresh pot of coffee and taken a coffee cake out of the oven. The cake was for the upcoming Council Meeting, but of course, it never made it. I opened the door and let Megs in and before I could turn around she was flitting through my house chanting "Be gone evil spirits, be gone, I command you". I just went to the kitchen, cut some coffee cake, poured some coffee and waited for her to complete her cleansing ritual. Later I had to sweep up the dried herbs she had scattered. I keep them in a bowl. It just doesn't seem right to throw them away somehow. When the bowl gets full I scatter them around my plants in my garden. Meg has seen me do this. I've seen her watching me, though I've never let on. I tell you this, because I think it's one of the reasons she trusts me. I don't disrespect her 'magic'. Now Meg often carries a large satchel type affair wherever she goes. Some day I hope to privy to ALL of it's contents. It would be so interesting to see what treasures she accumulates during the course of day or constantly keeps close to her besides her herbs and candles. On this particular morning she sat down at my table like a proper lady and sipped her coffee and ate her cake. She didn't say a word, just watched me trying not to appear to be watching her. Eventually, she relaxed and smiled at me. I smiled back. When I got up to refill our cups, my back was to her and suddenly I heard her say "Miz Mayor...can I show you something? You write books I'm told. I write books too.(She meant her journals) I'm not crazy everywhere in my mind you know". Well! It took longer than usual to pour two cups of coffee because I was so stunned at her words. It was a delicate moment and I didn't want to cause her to withdraw into herself. I put the cups on the table, sat down and smiled and said "You may show me anything you like Meg. If it's a book, it will make me very happy." I was taking a shot in the dark with that remark, but I was pretty sure it HAD to be some kind of book judging from her remarks. That's when she pulled out her journals. The only thing on the front of them was a 'face plate' - like a little business card inserted into a sleeve. Each card was marked with a year on it. The first one was dated 1935. Meg would have been 10 years old. The second one was dated 1965. Meg would have been 40. If you have been following my tales of Meg you will realize that the 1935 one was the year that her nurse died. The 1965 one is the year that her father died. Pivotal years both, in our Megs life. Meg pushed the books across the table to me and said "Please Miz Mayor, I want you to read these. I want to know if you can believe in them - in me." For the first time since I've known Megs, I saw into her eyes: clear, bright, a bit frightened, yet so full of yearning for understanding and seemingly searching for a clarity her mind was not yet ready for. I had to get up and fix myself another coffee I didn't really need, just to give myself time to think. Meg waited patiently, but at the same time she managed to finish the last of the coffee cake! lol We spent the morning talking. It was a bit difficult because she would suddenly lose her train of thought and flit off around the house or out into my gardens. But she always came back, and would pick up the thread of our conversation as if she never left. I worked on my computer during her absences and closed the lid when she returned. At one point she came up behind me while I was typing and stood and watched me. She seemed pleased that I could make words appear on the screen. I don't think she's ever seen a computer! I have promised to teach her to type. THAT should be a treat! lol In the interest of brevity I will move to the end of the day when I finally had time to sit down and read her journals. The first one was full of childish pencil hand printing and doodles and some rather fine line drawings of what I assume were small scenes from her bedroom window like little snapshots of life outside that horrible house. The second one, was written in a lovely script with pen and ink, faded in places and often hard to read when emotion scrawled across the pages. When I was done, I sat and cried and understood so much better that the past year of my own life was a cake walk compared to the year 1925 for Meg. Today Meg and I spoke again. She has promised to give me the rest of her journals, two by two. One for every year of her life since she was ten. She is now 83. She says that this year's journal is mostly about ME (!), but of course it doesn't have an ending yet! I have talked to her about turning her journals into a book, and her answer surprised me. "You must, you must", she said. "That's why I am giving them to you. I've been told that you write books and I want a book about me that I can read as if I'm reading about someone else, but knowing it's me, but removed from the me that will no longer be me. I'm not crazy everywhere in my mind you know and I don't want to be crazy anywhere in my mind anymore". Age is a funny thing. Most of us lose our capacity at Meg's age to keep our minds clear and in the present. Meg's life has been such that it is as if she is in reverse. She has lived with mental confusion for so long that she's tired of it. She wants to think clearly, to live free of her past and her ghosts and her nightmares and herself as others have seen her for so long, as she has seen herself for so long. Who among us, no matter what our mental capacity, doesn't long to be 'normal'? I don't really know what I've done to earn Meg's total trust and complete acceptance. Perhaps my very 'strangeness' draws her to me. Or my red hair! lol Whatever the motivation, the next few months of learning about this remarkable woman, past and present, will forever change me, change her, and forge a bond the like of which I will probably never be privileged to enjoy again. Megs is a tiny wisp of a woman with an inner drive to break free of herself. It has kept her energized, healthy and far younger than her chronological years. I hope I can do her justice. This is her journey, not mine. And yet as a writer I know that her journey WILL become mine in the writing, and that my own ghosts and nightmares and other people's perceptions of me that forged my own self image, will be invisibly underwritten throughout the story being told. As a writer, with this particular subject, I know that this is inevitable. It is important for both of us, that I make this a journey towards inner peace, not just freedom.