Matt and I were talking at dinner the other night. (We are adults now, and I've been pushing for sitting at the dining room table, now that our house is set up enough to get to it [oh right! we moved this summer. to a house two blocks over from our last place, our first standalone house of our married lives!]. It's kind of nice, having conversations instead of watching TV while we eat.) Over bowls of cauliflower chili, he mentioned that he kind of wished he'd kept a journal or something during his grad school years, so he could remember what his headspace was like, instead of looking back and realizing he had no idea what he was thinking during some parts of life. And I thought, this blog has been a record of my life for so long, and yet I've lost the drive to write on a regular basis.
I have lots of things I'd like to say, of course, but the thought of putting (figuratively) pen to paper, and figuring out what is worth sharing sounds more tiring than I'd like it to be.
But here's the thing. The more I choose not to write, the easier it is to keep not writing. I've got a whole, unwritten summer just behind me. The more I choose not to pour out my memories, the more I realize that I have forgotten the details, that I don't remember as well as I thought I would. Life stays full-to-bursting even when I choose not to write. And when I choose not to write, the good (as well as the mundane and bad and boring) is lost. And later, Matt will ask me, hey remember when we were/did/saw XYZ, and I will not remember the specific thing he's mentioning, and I'll worry again if my memory is shorting out a little earlier than it should.
From Summer 2016: I want to remember the wedding with the grits bar, and laughing as we sipped our drinks awkwardly on the lawn, and how happy we were on the dance floor. I want to remember hugs and walks and tears and Zumba and time spent quiet with close friends. I want to remember the sweet, puckering taste of that lemon cocktail at the fancy restaurant we went to for our anniversary, to celebrate FIVE YEARS, as my dad would say, and how Matt kept calling me "raven" because I'd had my hair dyed a bright, dark shade of purple that morning.
I want to remember the feeling of panic I first felt before I got my bearings when my mom and I went indoor skydiving over Memorial Day weekend, and watching cheesy '70s game shows in the little studio we stayed at in Boston when we road-tripped up through New England. And what about the creaminess of that long-awaited lobstah roll, and the dog on the field of Fenway! What about appreciating whiskey for the first time? And squeezing through the rocks in Georgia, and chatting on the patio in Chattanooga?
The visits from our parents, and the surprise 29th birthday party that I wish I'd gotten some photos of, because I was not expecting it at all (he lied about looking for a lawn mower!) and all my Virginia friends in one place at one time. The car breaking down in Dallas, and how we laughed when we thought we might miss the concert because of the absurdity of the whole thing, and the pool party with all my relatives. Being so excited to see Matt's cousin's performance in North Carolina, since we never made it up to Broadway.
I realize how much I will lose if I don't write. And so I'll try harder to find words for all this fullness.