I’ve found the passing of time to be fascinating. There are moments where everything is fast, and there are moments where everything is slow, and sometimes the time passes both slow and fast at the very same time which seems unfathomable, but is somehow real. The Earth spins in circles in the exact same 24 hours a day every single day and yet 24 hours can feel like 2 minutes and 24 hours can feel like 2 weeks.
We moved to the bay on August 5th which was 3 months and almost a week ago. 97 total days of bay area living and I still can’t believe we’re here.
If I could paint you a picture of Colorado Springs, you would see the mountains and the sunsets, the dry hot summers, and the wet freezing winters. You'd see the McDonald's I frequented when I was angry or sad, the place I first learned pottery, my first apartment I lived in (practically still a child), my many heartbreaks. You'd see the place I got my first tattoo that I regret, and all the other less regrettable ones that followed. You'd see the hundreds of bones smokes, thousands of beers drank, tears cried and more laughter than you can imagine. You would see the patio we frequented and drank way too many daytime beers, the place we brunched almost every weekend, even when we should have been saving money for that house we were going to buy.
I go through moments when I write a lot, and then I don't write, and whenever I come back to writing I think to myself "I need to write about not writing" but then I think "what's the point of that?" and I try to rack my brain for the things that are going on to fill the space of not talking about not writing.
If I knew how to write poems, I would write about the ways you never protected me, the ways you said you loved me but never showed me, and the ways you broke me down again and again and again. If I knew how to string words together like a song, I would sing of the ways that you stole my childhood, suffocated the person I wanted to be, and manipulated my perception of truth. If I knew how, I would scream the story over and over and over again until my vocal chords gave up and it was just scratchy noise because then maybe I could forget. Maybe if I were able to sing or write rhymes or even learn to yell about my pain it would come out like vomit and I wouldn't have to feel it any longer and I wouldn't have to drown any longer and I wouldn't have to crack any deeper and any other possible metaphor for sadness and pain and brokenness you can think of because that is what I feel. Deep down under the layers I've built you've broken me so deeply and all I want is to rid of the pain you've caused because I am better and I am stronger than you have ever believed me to be. Your nastiness spreads like weeds, your manipulation haunts like a ghost, and your words echo in my head like an empty room.
When it comes to the new year, I'm all about goal setting. I take my life, separate it into little compartments, and set goals for each aspect. I've always done this in my head, get very serious about it in the beginning of the year, and then by the middle of the year I'm not focused, interested, or am just way too sidetracked to go back and think about it. I'm just living life in the moment. This past year passed way too quickly and although I accomplished A LOT - not everything was what I had initially planned to put my energy into. (Not to say plans can't change, but they should change with intention.)
So, here I am. January 2. Time to set some goals to look back on, to reference throughout the year, and move forward with all year long. Here's a long laundry list of my generalized goals.
2017 has held many ups and downs. This year held joy unimaginable and some sorrows we did not expect. Some anger with the world we expected, some kindness from the world we also did not expect. I'm trying to focus on the good, the learning, the new - and plan ahead for next year. Here's a peak into the past year of life.
I know that time is always moving. People, things, places, are forever changing. But recently I've felt an ache in my heart for the way things are moving. There's a sense of success or adulthood that I feel I need to be achieving recently. There's friends buying homes, getting promoted, finding passions, having babies. And I can't stop thinking about the change.
I was never taught that my physical self was beautiful. I often heard –"That shirt is cut too low." "That skirt is too short." "Those jeans are too tight." and on and on. Growing up the first years of my life in a family that was independent fundamental baptist, followed by strict christianity, there was always a sentiment of "your body is a temple". But it only seemed applicable to what I could not do - don't have sex before marriage, don't cause others to lust, don't get tattoos...I could go on. My body was not something to be celebrated.