The Lake Isle of Innisfree and Me


Sometimes, in the dark of a sleepless night filled with memories that won’t stay locked away, I take myself to a lovely little place imagined first in the mind of William Yeats. He must have known the same weariness that scrubs at my heart, making me ache for a place of peace and rest that exists only in imagination.

I sometimes seek solitude and comfort in the island of my mind, complete with a bee loud glade and linnet wings ushering in quiet, lavender-scented evenings. I  have gotten fairly adept at leaving the chaos of my world behind; I travel to my imaginary island where my feet know the feeling of warm sand and I am welcomed by a certain blue-green coolness of shade trees. There I can sit quietly and breath, letting the bees take my sorrows and concerns away with their buzzing.

Today I am content to let Little Thang lead me to this ‘other’ invisible home. I am finding the writing I am doing here exhausting and I’ve only just begun. I have found myself looking back, wondering if my decision to write my truth is possible without it consuming me again. During the last few week of therapy (several years ago now), my brilliant therapist, Sheryl, assured me I would know the healing was well on its way when I could speak of the events without crying. I am at that place, but I didn’t realize it would feel akin to picking off an old scab. There is no blood, but the raw scar is evident even now, years beyond the closure of therapy sessions.  I am surprised and a bit dismayed at the final pain of this unveiling. I am forever altered and that causes a curious pain all of its own. I didn’t expect that.

So, once in a while I will have to break away from the story, I’ll need to pace myself and find ways to explain to you, even as I explain to myself, exactly who I am now, on the other side of the remembering and grief for a childhood lost.

The Lake Isle of Innisfreeil_340x270.953901804_q4z8

W. B. Yeats, 18651939


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.


And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.


I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.



Island: <a href=””>Island</a>





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