I try to remember last November, how everything started to unravel, little threads to pull at, corners of peeling wallpaper. Had I only known what it might mean to pick at them, to wonder what’s beneath. It does not always occur to us there is another life behind the one we have. Because we do not yet know what it looks like, what it tastes like, and who we are in other places.
I try to write about something new, but seasons of my life fixate and hinge on certain topics. Always the overlapping of selves a central theme, ideas of home, and always a mention of Montana. I circle like a vulture around the same ideas for entire stretches of my life. I don’t know if I ever learn what I want to, or say what I mean.
This one feels like something I asked for a long long time ago. A letter I put in a bottle and sent out to sea comes back to me every morning when I wake up here. Someone asked me recently how or if we ever know we are in the times of our lives while we are in the time of our lives. And I told him, that we might catch glimpses– moments of moments we already miss even as they are happening. But we can never truly know how we will view a time until we have passed into a new one. And I suppose I am blessed in the sense that everytime I pass into a new one, the one before appears to have been the time of my life. Every single era, times of my life.
I do not think this answers my questions of earlier. Other than I sense there is new wallpaper to peel at and strings to catch and snag as I walk around the house. I try to focus in on things in front of me, to narrow my window, make the aperture of my life smaller. So the details are more in focus, so the now is a clear as the then. Maybe that is not how a writer’s mind works. But, that seems too simple a diagnosis, too easy an explanation for me to hang all of my behaviors on.