February 23, 2018 UPDATE: Many thanks to all of you for supporting Thomas and his family (and me) through this very stressful time. Last night was a good night and I love that so many of you were celebrating with us. I am so grateful for you guys! So many have asked about writing to Thomas and about where he will be - here's what I know: Before he was granted clemency, he speculated that if it happened, he would be sent to a medical unit for evaluation and then possibly moved a few times before being assigned a new permanent unit. 999522 will be retired and he will be given a new TDCJ #. He said he wouldn't be able to write until he has his property (for stamps and envelopes) and he wasn't sure how long that might take, so he said it might be a while before we hear from him. I promise to post his new contact info as soon as I have it. Thomas has also promised to write about this experience for MB6 and to make MB6 writing a priority again as soon as he is able. He is aware of all your support and is he very grateful to all of you and wants to thank you himself as soon as he can. Thank you again so very much for being a part of this miracle and for your love and support. You all helped make this happen and it wouldn't have happened without you xx Dina  |
| Taking Flight Artist: Thomas Bartlett Whitaker |
Be like the bird, pausing in his flightOn the limb too slightFeels it give way, yet singsKnowing he has wings- Victor Hugo
Thomas Bartlett Whitaker was granted clemency tonight instead of being executed. There are so many people deserving of thanks who worked tirelessly to make this happen and Thomas plans to do this directly once he is settled into his new unit. Please know we are so very grateful to all of you who wrote letters supporting clemency and faxed and called the Governor and the Board of Pardons and Paroles. To the many amazing people who reached out with kind words of support during this stressful time, your gestures have meant the world to Thomas and to all of us who care for him. We thank you from the bottoms of our hearts tonight. Because of you, Thomas will continue to write. And breathe. Our love and gratitude goes out to all of you. Please check back soon for more updates XO
 |
| Thomas Bartlett Whitaker |
Thomas shared this poem with me when we began exchanging letters a decade ago
and now it reminds me of him
Birches
By Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.