So I haven’t written in a while. It seems every time I sit to do so, think up a subject, I decide it’s not worth it. Who cares what I had for lunch or my thoughts on the latest crisis in Iraq? I still haven’t even decided whether blogs are a blessing or a curse. I love that they are immediately “out there” and maybe it’s encouraging more people to write more often. But the day-to-day entries just seem like some kind of navel-inspecting exercise, utterly pointless. I guess most writing is to some extent. I’m probably overanalyzing – I usually do.
In any case, I’ve decided to change the purpose of this blog. It may only matter to me because even though I have hits on epizoodiks, I don’t know that anyone is actually reading. This blog, drum roll please, will now be a place to record memories – and yes, I can hear the collective groan rising up. Who needs another memoir, right?
I find that I do. Lately, I look in the mirror and see myself, actually see my face. It’s older. I’m older. I’m really older. It’s not that it’s a bad thing, just something I’ve noticed. I see wrinkles where there were none, stuff is sagging, bags are growing. I see experience too, and I see lots of memories. Stuff I’m holding onto, holding in myself, in my body. It’s all over my face.
I want to let it go finally. Lately I’ve been deepening my yoga and meditation practices and I’m constantly being reminded that the past and future don’t exist, only this moment in time. I’ve always believed that but I think my heart may just now be learning it. Brooding on the past, brooding on the future, they seem real and so you hold onto them the best you can. The brooding is real. But the past and future themselves are not.
I remember a Buddhist priest who had “Just This” written on the inside of her belt as a reminder. I love that – I got it immediately. Just this.
I hold onto the past a lot. Remember it, analyze it, relive it. Over and over again. Maybe by writing about it I can finally let it go, make it some physical act like throwing bad habits written onto a piece of paper into a bonfire for the new year. Or maybe it’s a futile exercise. But I feel the need to do it. I need to let go of some things and make my life a little lighter. Lighten up some of the dark circles I see under my eyes. Quit holding onto what can’t be held.
It’s because I’m forgetting things too. Stuff I used to know so vividly is going away – I can’t recall things people tell me or things that I *know* happened. It’s scary to lose your memories. I suppose by writing them down I’ll feel somewhat better. At least there’s a written record, right? Other people have assuaged their fear this way as well. I know that. Now I need to as well.
Are memories all we have? Are we just a composite of our past experiences? What we remember is not necessarily what *exactly* happened. I’m not the first to explore this, nor will I be the last. I’m just one of the masses here, trying to make sense of all this ephemera I’ve been holding close like a precious memento. I’ve been decluttering my house, now it’s time to declutter my mind.