I've found my people and my home—August 8, 1973

rugpiucio 8d 1973 m.

My dearest Jim—

I miss you. Receiving your letters reinforces that a thousandfold, and also brings the frustration of going back much closer. Damn it—I don't want to. And I do want you. It doesn't matter, anyway, I'm leaving in less than two weeks.

It worries me, I don't know whether my letters are any good for you whatsoever . . . so much of me has gone into them, love, both in terms of time and emotion, no matter how badly written they may be.

So. It is one day later now, I've been sick in bed all day and I'm feeling fine. . . a shower, a cleaning the room orgy and fourteen hours of sleep later. I've lost a day, I suppose. But then I could not have gone on as before. . .By the way, I went camping with about a dozen of my family this weekend, learned how to find food and prepare it . . . sang by a campfire in the late evening with a fine mist in the air. It was a fine, fine experience. I wish—and this is not only an old line but also an honest sentiment—that you had been there. I've finally met my sister's daughter, her husband, their child, all of them were there. Stasys is an integral part of the group as am I. It was a happy time, I spent the afternoon mushroom hunting, the evening swimming in a small river, the night watching clouds disappear. Like Neringa, only Neringa is a poor imitation. . .

Yesterday there was an excursion to Kaunas. We saw a gallery of stained glass and sculpture—interesting, some of it was really excellent, some of it was utter shit. For some reason, sculpture seems to touch me emotionally much more strongly than most other art forms—I may love the thing or despise it, but there is always something. I am constantly amazed at the amount of hate that burns within me, waiting . . . I've been writing a lot of poetry about waiting.
I also saw Ciurlionio galerija—an experience that will stay with me, seeing it for the first time, although I hope to be there again and again. There was a guided tour, as always, through the homes and by the churches of some of our commonly famous writers . . . and three free hours to visit all of my relatives in Kaunas. Bread and salt and cognac—Love and pain and bitterness—my father's sister—She looks much like him but is small, she was an agronomist. More, but this is not the place.

By the way, if any of the times are confusing, it's not an error.

Thank you for your letters. I have received three up to now. They come very sporadically, through very many dirty hands, but they come, and they are good. In fact, they are almost essential for me to remain as myself. Thank you, love.

Don't worry about our parting, or about our meeting—these are not essential things. The essential ones, I think, we both are sure of. Much has changed in me and much will not become clear until I leave. I have now more purpose in me than I had thought possible, more of everything. More hate, more love, more grief, more joy. I've found my people and my home. Although I'm missing my first home nevertheless, and you—in a thousand different ways I am with you each and every day and night, even when I am completely here. I don't yet know myself when I am coming back, I will probably see you in Boston . . . until our meeting, be well, be happy, know that I have been with you throughout, know that I love you.

Pretty moon tonight . . . . for you, it is midday.

When you sleep, sleep well. Yours,

Vaiva