I asked my brother to dig out the Rubbermaid container that holds a large amount of my previous writing, most of which has never been seen by eyes other than mine. It arrived last night. Letters, journals, poetry--a written tapestry of my former life. There is one box conspicuously missing, the box with my journals written during my teens. Probably just as well right now. There's enough here to sort through as it is.
As with almost everything that enters my life, I do this dance around it, a love/hate dance wondering what files in my mind to put it into. Part of me just wants to take the contents out of its blue, plastic belly and have a bonfire. Then there is the voice that says some of it is worth exploring and sharing here. Perhaps it will add another dimension to the book. Either way, I will be venturing in, sorting, filing and discarding. And probably smiling, laughing and crying a whole lot along the way.
And you're probably wondering, why even bother? And I don't have a logical explanation for my need to revisit this stuff. It's my ongoing desire to make sense of things, to find somewhere to put things and to learn from my experience. I had very little opportunity to embody and process most of my life as it happened. I think repression is the term. So, now I feel compelled to return to all the places that scare me. Perhaps it's the same drive that made me a scab picker, that desire to see if I'm healed yet. Whatever that healing even looks like, I'm not sure. Perhaps it's my obsessive mind needing to grind its teeth against the challenging bits of my journey. I'm sure it's not rational. I know it's not rational. And yet, here I am sitting in my kitchen with bits of paper strewn around me like picked-over carcasses waiting for disposal.
This is what the tall penguin does, until she doesn't. It is what it is. So, please fasten your seatbelts. Keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times. And remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop.