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“I will write randomly as my life has been lived, and occasionally, like John Gardner,
saint and inspiration that he was, throw in a tantalizing quote from others more
learned than I.

Here goes.

No Roots
If you are from the South, historically the one thing you can count on is roots. That is the life that was. No more. At least for those of us who got out.... 

The scientists must classify to organize their minds. My mind feels like a puff ball, an innocent milkweed waiting to be floated on the next warm current. Its little airy fairies could drift anywhere, land, and propagate. We are something like that ourselves. And we have done it.

I can survive the shallow feeling of sudden living, because I have a wealth of deep down being back where I came from. 

The thought has slowly dawned that the best I can do to give my children a sense of place is to try to capture all the memories of a southern childhood that is no more.

I fear it will fall in fragments. My mind, like litmus, has picked up the more acid events.  Yet, like all memories, there is a mist that clings and invites fantasy. The combination should come out about even.

-- excerpted from an essay, "No Roots"

... My life is not one of loss. It has been one of exploration, excitement, and discovery.  I have always felt that the possibilities were endless. I could do or be or accomplish anything I set my mind to. There was searching, yes, but always for the next great adventure. The fact that my personal ambitions got sidetracked when I boarded the train of matrimony doesn’t diminish the fullness of all that has transpired.

-- excerpted from an essay, untitled

Don’t lose sight of the importance of people. Family first and always top priority. But giving back must go further. Reach out to old friends and make new ones. Share. Broaden your horizons and stretch your mind.

Try to do something new and possibly frightening on a regular basis. Actively look for such challenges to the status quo.

Ode to the Beach
Notebook entry: July 10, 1987
Reworked: Key West April 16, 1989 and April 26, 1989

Today you are sleek and smooth
As the choir boy’s cheek,
Stretched taut and toned
By the surf’s rhythmic beat.

When last we met, your adolescent face
Was pocked with pebbles,
Angry eruptions
Working their way from deep within.
Tomorrow you will be your ancient self again
Accepting time’s erosions
With a willing giving
Patiently, you surrender yourself
To the gentle rubbing
Lathering a white whisker froth
On the sea’s jutting chin.


Listen to excerpts from the interviews with Libby.

Fallen Gentility


Searching for a Home

Copyright 2018 Maggie MarkdaSilva