July 5, 2003

I have a rock from Plymouth Rock, foliage from the shore, and a sense of who my poetic sister, Emily Dickinson, was. It is amazing that I just began exploring Massachusetts at 11 a.m. today because 12 hours later I had been through the whole state. Today I went to Emily Dickinson’s home. That was incredible; she was the subject of so much study and research in my academic and personal life. I feel as if I know her. I understand her. I really do. I know I do.

When I got to Amherst, MA today, and I saw that house, I cried. I mean, I didn’t bawl or anything, but it is so special to be there. It was so strange. It has been a part of my life for over 9 years. On my way I was trying to recall when I first became a fan, and then a friend, of Emily. January 1994—after the earthquake in a class at Cal State Northridge. I read “I felt a funeral in my brain” and realized she was the only one who understood me after the earthquake. I am since not traumatized and living in fear, of course but like a friend you bond with a great time of crisis, the bond forever remains even if the relationship changes. How appropriate that at the end of this journey, as I prepare to return to LA, I get the opportunity to see Emily’s life up closer. It seems so prefect. It seems planned. I think there is a whole lot planned I cannot see.

The tour was amazing. Her room was a picture of the past. Her dress told me we were the same height—she was a couple sizes smaller than I. Her hair was reddish brown—this was a surprise. The biggest surprise was that from the age of 10-25 she lived around the corner on Pleasant Street (note the irony)—where her bedroom window overlooked the cemetery where she is now buried, and she viewed many funerals. That helped me understand her death poems so much. I saw her grave too. I saw her life, her town, her world. She was so NOT crazy. But without an intimate relationship with the Lord I would have been more like her than is healthy. She needed Jesus—she knew Him, but it was different. She needed the power of the Holy Spirit. Then her hope would not have had feathers.

I called Robin from the garden of her house, sat on a bench at Emily Dickinson’s home and gabbed to my best friend who saw me through my Emily stage in life. It was too cool. The visit made me want to enroll in grad school and study English all over again—just her mostly. I did not lose my passion for her. It felt so weird to see cars and modern things in this town that in my mind is forever in the 19th century even though I had never seen it.

The tour guide (a retired English professor who has studied Emily) asked on a scale of 1-10 how many of us felt we had a knowledge of her at a 7 or higher. I was the only one who raised my hand. It was so AMAZING! I spent too much on stuff there, but as Robin said, I may never get back there. It was very special. I loved Amherst. All in all I have not been overly impressed with New England. It is pretty, but not as pretty as people say. But Amherst is how I pictured New England. I drove south out of Amherst through South Hadley where Mount Holyoke College is—it is one of the famous Five Colleges in that region—actually, I saw all five—but it is the one Emily went to, so I wanted to see it. It was gorgeous. So I finally enjoyed New England.