Anyway I think I have the show tickets all sold and am prepared to not go to NYC.
But I am not prepared to be home.
I had for so long intended to be gone–
for this weekend, for my birthday, for halloween, TO RELAX–
that the idea of staying has formed as a nice ball of dread in my chest.
I just haven’t made any *new* plans. And I don’t know what’s happening day to day
with most of the people in my life, so I am not into making any that rely on other people.
What am I to do with this time off I carved out of my schedule? I’m used to being busy . . .
I miss retreat centers.
If I were in Indiana I would just pay for an inexpensive room at Quaker Hill or something and
sequester myself for a week of journaling and painting and praying.
But I’m here.
And I miss me.
I don’t know this joy-less person.
I have little things I take joy in, but without it being shared it gets stuck on the inside.
Part of it is I have realized that I am ashamed of my memory and thus of my memories.
When I was little I always remembered names. Assuming no one would ever remember me,
I was ashamed to admit I knew their name. Somehow it felt like rejection to have knowledge they didn’t have,
so I would pretend. That way neither of us had to feel guilty.
As an adult I am beginning to finally believe that, well, maybe I just have a better memory than some.
Maybe it’s okay to go ahead and share stories; maybe people will like being reminded.
I shouldn’t worry that somehow remembering details is going to make me vulnerable.
Perhaps the reason I remember and they don’t *isn’t* really that they value the experience any less.
They just simply don’t remember.