My Rediscovery of Me

A few of many photos I took during four days in Rhode Island with Nic for New Year’s:

I’ve been listening to this song at least once a day. Her version is many times better than the original, in my opinion.

I was here a week ago.

I WILL MISS THE HELL OUT OF THESE.

I’m back in Oxford.

Things are still amazing.

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I would try to write about it all, but it’s still processing. Regarding my last post, though: I never made it to Ship Island on Sunday. I did get some beach time and some amazing conversations in. Monday was wonderful. I have cried so much in the past week. Tears of joy, tears of love. So much.

I’ve never felt like this. I am still looking for the words to describe it. I might have to invent them.

So blessed. So loved. So, so, so. I can’t believe it.

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In an autocorrect fail earlier today, Helen wrote: “I have very little constellation of my emotions.” That was one of many beautiful moments.

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I started a writing project this weekend in which I write letters to people/events/things in the future; it’s called Dear Future.

All of Part One

Dear Future:

Please exist.

Part of Part Two

Dear future me:

People do not break. You are whole, holding a whole life’s worth of living. You better thank god for that, beautiful woman.

Are you continuing to take responsibility for your happiness? Have proof.

I hope you’ve stopped searching for distractions, craving barriers to your being present. Your memory is equal parts amazement and illusion, perhaps bits of elusion as well. Do not wish to relive or revive. Right now is all there is. You know this.

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Part of Part Three

Dear future love of my life:

My body, rotting inside, isn’t keeping up with my heart, which is growing heartily. When we greet, maybe not for the first time, and we first glimpse the future in each other’s eyes, I will be apologizing to you for that, silently, within that stare.

I fear that the physical me may fail before we give in to each other, fully, and should you be left to shoulder me at my weakest, you must know the love that is in me is forever yours. Maybe it has been, always. Or maybe not. Please do not give up on this.

I promise you everything — well, my everything — for as long as I can provide it and as long as you’ll have it.

I dream of us continuously (yes, continuously) and will continue to collect stories from this life that I am attempting to live so fully. I prepare to confess my indulgences to you. My faults and my failures, too. Full-frontal veracity.

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So that’s the beginning of something. The letters will vary in length but, with the exception of the first one, should be considerably longer than what I have now. It seems a little overly dramatic, though, doesn’t it? Sure, my kidneys are bad and yes they’re getting worse quickly, but is this me 1) finally seeing the truth, 2) exaggerating, 3) both, 4) neither?

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I went to the End of the Road today. With someone I really care about. Beautiful. Tragic. Fitting.

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On a church sign somewhere in Mississippi: “You cannot harvest unless you plant.”

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A few days ago, I received an email from someone I knew very long ago. It had been so long that, honestly, it took a while for me to remember how I knew him.

We had gone to high school together.

I wrote back. And he did — and with a number. Today, I called. We had an amazing conversation. He told me that he had wanted to be friends since high school, but he was always too shy to make it happen. We’re going to catch up and go to a movie on Friday.

The walls we put between each other are imaginary and bulletproof simultaneously. Unnecessary.

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There’s a project — a group effort — that I was working on when I was in Wichita. I didn’t fulfill my portion of it. I still can, I think, but I don’t have the motivation. I never did for this particular project. I let the others down, though no one has complained. I’ll feel equally bad completing it or leaving it.

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It’s 3:20 a.m. I need to sleep, but I’m still thinking of the moon.