TO JULIA CAMERON, AUTHOR OF “THE ARTIST’S WAY”
Dear dang Julia,
When Sandy first called you that, I thought “dang”
was too weak a word.
Now I think it’s perfect
because I do sort of love this misery you put me through,
morning pages and artist dates
those infernal lists
the stupid affirmations, which I never did. Not once.
And I didn’t do it the way you said to.
I have my own morning ritual of self-care
and you, dang Julia, are not in it. I get to you
when I get to you.
It might be 8 a.m. It might be 7:38 p.m. Deal with it.
And I didn’t take 12 weeks to do your course.
I only had four to give, but I gave them to you.
You should thank me.
I also have things—people—you don’t seem to have:
a husband, teenagers.
They take precedence. You say my artist is a child,
dang Julia.
Well, so are my children.
And you were right about quite a lot.
There is such a thing as synchronicity, dang Julia.
I received unimaginable gifts from unexpected sources,
like homemade granola and origami butterflies.
I learned I have blockages, but they’re in capillaries—
not arteries. I’m not about to keel over.
I learned I have it better than lots of folks
in ways I had not considered. And I learned that even you,
dang Julia,
will be not be remembered for your films or your plays,
only for this slim 222-page book.
You shook the apple tree, and the universe
delivered oranges,
just as you wrote in Chapter 5.
