the memory mirror.
reflections on a visit home, and the beautiful pain of change.
“i’ve been brought into so much newness. it feels so uncomfortable but like it’s walking me home at the same time. i guess i’m learning the art of walking on some spiritual tightrope and it’s allowed to be scary and nothing but that. it arguably has to be, and im so scared to care too much or not enough when it comes to putting one foot after the other. but in the same breath, i deeply wish to relinquish my obsessive desire to know, to be prepared, to control. may i let go of these things not out of weakness, but out of strength. everything at one point is soft, vulnerable, and susceptible to transformation. it is okay to feel this way. it must be human to feel this way. this process will be full of mistakes, anxiety, and beauty, for that is the sum of the parts that make up quite literally *any* human experience. i suppose i’ve done everything a bit scared this last year or so. and what is the basis of my fear? in a world so saturated by distractions, goal posts, and people trying to sell me something, what would it look like to turn inwards and put what is really sacred on the pedestal: moments of truth- of discomfort- with self. moments that are carried by courage. moments that take you somewhere new, instead of what may be familiar. and what would it look like to embody grace as a practice as i do this?
The above is an excerpt from a journal entry I wrote whilst sitting amongst ten other writers in the candle-lit Brooklyn apartment of one of my greatest creative inspirations. She had gathered us together to create and share our hearts on one snowy February evening. None of us knew each other, but we all shared a mutual love for both writing and our dearest host. It was such an honor to be there- it reminded me a bit of how the musical A Chorus Line came to be. (No, the theatre kid in me will never die- I just had to make the reference- if you know you know BUT I digress…) It felt like what could be the beginning of something special and sacred. We began by going around our small circle, briefly talking about what it was we were planning on writing.
I had known about this writing night for about two-ish weeks in advance, and my brain played ping-pong with several ideas leading up to the evening. Nothing in particular stood out to me. Nothing really grabbed at me or pulled me into it’s ideological orbit. So I figured I’d practice showing up like I’ve been having to show up for myself as of late- in the unknown. No plan, prompt, or project. I told myself to just show up and see what happens. Instead of continually being brought into the unknown, what if I, on purpose, practice putting myself there? I have no idea if this exposure-type-therapy will be of service to me as time continues to spin onward, but I figured it’s worth a shot. And, it actually turned out to be quite fun. There was a sort of playfulness that was brought into my creating when I could work from a place of knowing that there were truly no expectations.
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But as I sit here now, in my childhood bedroom, typing about the unknown… I can’t help but also notice and reflect on what it is I have known. Each time I come home to St. Louis, I am reminded of memories, of what was, tossed around like breadcrumbs all over the city that has changed so much yet also stayed the same:
I look at the neighbor’s backyard- the one I spent so much time in as a child- sprouting with grass, dandelions, and nostalgia. The family I knew hasn’t lived in that home for nearly eighteen years- but a six year old me still shoots a water gun from the edge of that driveway. The people that live in that house now do not know me, and likely never will, and have no idea the worlds I built and the laughter I bellowed with the other neighborhood kids all those years ago on their now freshly mowed lawn.
I drive through the town I used to visit in hopes that a boy I liked would like me back. What was once a desperate attempt to feel love has now morphed into the embracing of a girl who didn’t know her worth yet.
I am shown a photo of myself from an audition room my senior year of high school- one of those iPhone memory slideshows- and I truly feel like I have a past life. I used to mourn for that version of me, how I never lived up to her expectations. Now she celebrates me and my liberation. She thanks me. It’s what she always wanted, but couldn't admit to herself. And that’s more than okay.
I watch the sun set into an oil painting of reds, oranges, yellows and purples as I drive home on I-64 West. And just like I ask the mirror in my childhood bedroom: just how many versions of me have you seen?
I lay in my bed next to my old Oliver dog, who just turned twelve on the first of this month. I play the song Barfly by his favorite recording artist, Ray LaMontagne. Without fail, he is put to sleep within 30 seconds of its acoustic hum nearly every time. This, you could say, is our song. Things have changed immensely- he quite a bit more grey in color, and myself, living in a whole new city- but some things, do really stay the same.
I drive past the street where I had my first kiss. On that night I remember how humidity teased my hair in every direction except towards my scalp. How I was surrounded by friends and the first sip of a truth I longed to taste. It tasted like boxed wine and the song Electric Love by BØRNS. I found a letter from this first boyfriend of mine wedged in-between some books in my bookshelf. I cried upon reading it. It was so genuinely sincere and loving. I then remembered how I felt reading it a decade ago- how I didn’t believe a word he said. And it wasn’t because he didn’t mean those things. I just couldn’t fathom them really being true. We broke up a month or so later.
We’ve all been witness to when the familiar shape-shifts before our very eyes. And for myself, It’s a privilege to do so when I go back to the place that grew me. I feel so grateful every time. I am overwhelmed with the fact that so much has changed, yet also, so much has stayed the same.
I think if we’re lucky, the most difficult thing about time is that we just have to let it pass.
We get to let it pass.
And now, I think that going back to the same place- or at least a familiar one- doesn’t imply that it’s actually the same at all. It’s the very thing that continues to transform us, that holds a mirror up to our memories and says look at how much you’ve grown. What was once familiar is actually always changing, too.
And, it is with this that I’m reminded, maybe taking a closer look at what we already know can bring us closer to what it is that we don’t.
Love always, all ways,
tara w.
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