I had a few interesting conversations this weekend, and a lot of tea. I saw live music, I danced, I went for a walk around the park.
And right now I can’t help thinking about a dear friend and how inspiring a story was that she told me in graduate school. In her story there was anger, there was yelling, there were vegetables thrown into the street. Perhaps it isn’t a good model for a relationship, but as anyone who knows me these days knows, I don’t know that I’d have the courage to be like my friend. To pick up what was in front of me and in rage and passion hurl it into the street.
How does one become okay with emotion? I quell it, I dissect it into clinical terms and put it beside machines meant to test ether drift, or along the muscles of the throat. But I don’t yell.
Maybe I need to start yelling.
[Also, sometimes it’s a good idea to reflect. I’ve forgotten about a lot of what I’ve written on this blog, and I’ve been rather negligent about updating it. So I just paged through the old entries, and I forgot how full of love and amazement they are. And so I am happy, and I am curving back into myself. I’m sorry I’d forgotten you for so long.]