Sabbatical

I can wait.

I've done it before.

Three months, with no electricity and all that comes with it, only a garlic field, a kerosene lamp, a notebook, a sketchpad, a pen, five pencils, a broken down scooter, two beaches; one full of rocks, the other full of thorns, and stars at night. Lots and lots and lots of stars. And a sharp knife. Two knives.

The farmers' and fishermen's children brought me food: fish, octopus, seaweeds, rice and the odd greens I did not recognize. Sometimes, they would bring me colorful fish they caught, in rusty cans, or wild orchids and ferns that they would tie to the lone tree outside my little house. I would smile, but barely. They would smile back, and then run away. They rarely spoke to me, and it was good, for I had nothing to say.

Once, sometime between the three weeks when I was sleeping twenty-two hours a day, and the nine weeks when I could finally walk around, there was a typhoon. Their mothers and fathers came to check on me. They made sure I had my cigarettes, and that the roof was firmly tied down, and asked if I needed someone to stay with me. I shook my head, and smiled, and they went back to their homes to wait out the typhoon.

After that, they sent their children to go with me while I climbed the lighthouse, or checked my caves, or soaked in the little lagoon off the rocky beach.

I never wrote, because I could barely look at a pen without vomiting. And I never sketched because I could not look at a pencil without thinking of slamming it down, sharpened point first, into my hand, just to see if I would bleed thick or thin. Sometimes I would read, but often, I would just fall asleep.

Most of the time, I waited.

I can wait.

I've done it before.

It has been seven years since the last time.

I am waiting again. But this time will be different.

The waiting will be shorter now: there are fewer wounds to lick.

This time I will keep my pencils with me, and use them, and draw what I see, because my eyes are a little clearer now.

This time, I will write, because I have something to say, whether it be a copy of a prayer found elsewhere, or a few thoughts that occur in my tired, unused brain. The words, or even the thoughts, may not be important, but I will not think they are worthless, because at the very least, they come from me.

This time I will talk to people, because it is not fair to write off all, just because of a few that have hurt me. And even if the few who did hurt me are the ones who come, I will listen, because that is the way it should be.

This time I will not stop working, because I can see the light at the opening of the cave, and have a vague idea of what I am to do, and where I am to go, and the fact that I am alive.

The difference between this time and the last is small, and yet vast: a kinder boss, more friends, a more mature family, a dog.

And me.