Spellbound

                Creative nonfiction and prose were welcome pursuits from an early age—at home, at school, outdoors, or through scribbles in the moment—wherever that phenomenon happened.  By junior high school, as I read short stories or novels, the delights of writing fiction emerged.  I never imagined that the genre of “memoir” would become another enlightenment of glorious, untapped abundance.

                While pursuing college degrees and my professional pilgrimage, odyssey, and wayfaring, I delved into the evolution of my stories.  I scribbled, scrawled, and stuffed my collection into file folders—the manila ones.  At different junctures, I sent most of the tales, dramas, or comedies to diverse magazines. 

                Later, I created documents—the techno folders—with my epic journey.  In 2017, one of my techno folders became a fiction book devoted to short stories and flash fiction.  The namesake became Cliffhangers:  Dramas and The Renaissance.

                My pathfinding was not about to end.  Was it happenstance?  Serendipity?  Was it my mother’s intention to nudge me towards another realm?  Maybe it was a precious enlightenment that emerges when writing a family memoir.  Hmm…

                I remember where my Mom stated her heartfelt decision.  “PJ—take my manila-clasped folders from the nursing home. You keep them.” 

                Whenever an unexpected moment came—sharing what was inside those manila-clasped folders—my mother was never quite ready to read them together.  Madre would pause with her “far-away” look.  I finally knew why…

                Another year slipped by…2013.  My Dad had died two years earlier.  Madre chose her words fervently that day, looking into the depths of my eyes.  I had just murmured, “The eyes are windows to the soul—my soul that you know so well, Madre.”  

                She reached for my hand and squeezed it gently.  “Now—take the manila-clasped folders with you,” Madre stated, pointing to her nightstand.  “You read our love letters—for your book writing.  You were an admired professor and published so much throughout your career.  Now, I reread your new, creative books with photography.  I am so proud.  You will always love writing…” 

                Madre motioned to the nightstand again.  “Take the folders with our love letters for your writing. You already know how to write and what to share with people—what the world needs now.  Love sweet love…”

                Madre motioned to the nightstand again.  “Take the folders with our love letters for your writing. You already know how to write and what to share with people—what the world needs now.  Love sweet love…”

                Fast forward—to 2016.  I had been working on my infamous de-cluttering of closets, drawers, and storage bags.  I was rummaging around, getting bored, and paused for a break. 

                There were the manila-clasped folders, stored for at least three years, near my suede and leather boots at the back of my bedroom closet.  I glanced at the folders whenever I grabbed a pair of leather boots.  I had not forgotten Madre’s voice and loving messages.  Each time, I made a choice—not to open the manila-clasped folders.

                That evening on August 30, 2017 at 11:30 p.m., there were Madre’s telepathic and heartfelt messages of  “it is time…”   In my comforting lavender, plum blossom, and pewter bedroom, I laid down upon my beckoning bed. 

                I paused.  I began with three—deep, elongated, and purposeful breaths. 

                It was no coincidence.  Just like my esteemed Madre, I had taken a few years to come to this moment.  I finally began to read and became immersed…