Burning

This time in my life, this time where I find I have very little to offer an opinion about, is an odd time. (Considering those who have known me longer than a few days know I usually have an opinion about something). However, I find more often than not, lost in my thoughts, unable to articulate exactly what I’m thinking or feeling. Writing seemed to take a nose dive sometime in early 2010 when the earth was shifting in my personal life, and I’ve been highly distracted ever since. But as mentioned in my previous post, there is a calmness coming back. Somewhat of a rhythm or routine of sorts, that has settled into the household and into my life. I also feel creativity coming back, trust opening up, and fear eroding. I think humans feel comforted by routine, and more than I like to admit, I may like it, too. I have always fancied myself as more of a spontaneous chick, but I’ve come to learn over this past year that some measure of predictability is really a good thing. Not to say I can’t high tail it out on a walk through the park or take the long way home sometime at my spontaneous discretion, but if the daily rhythm is still there, I think it’s good for the body and soul.

And so for this blog, it has meandered through many roads since its inception. It started as an outsource for my creative ventures, then moved into necessity of publicity for my business, Revelry Press, and now it’s just, well, becoming just a blog. But really more like a journal because nobody is reading it because I’m not really blogging reciprocally. But that’s ok.

I did something very bold recently. Something I never, ever thought I would EVER do. As I have mentioned before, throughout my growing up and into adulthood, I kept many diaries: chronicling my good and not so good days of childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. There were at least 15 separate journal books filled with uninhibited ramblings. And there were entries in these journals that stung my eyes like mace. There were some things in these books that I had completely forgotten about or possibly my brain did me the favor of wiping them away. But here these memories were back now staring at me like a contemptuous ghost. They couldn’t possibly be me. These couldn’t possibly have been my thoughts and my actions. I started to well up when I read a particular entry from college. It was horrible.

And it was then that I did it. I thought to myself, how can I possibly keep this history alive? And so I brought that one particular journal from college outside and burned it. Yep. Lighter fluid, a match, and poof! It was ashes. And it felt great.

And then there were the 14 others staring at me in the face. I perused through all of them. Reading them and saying to myself, “Oh yeah, I remember that…” or laughing at some, and flat out gasping at others. I couldn’t help at that moment to think of my kids. I always had made the joke to others that at my death these diaries were to be burned. Because while I want my children to know me, maybe they don’t really need to “know” everything. And so why put it in the hands of someone else to dispose of them. And would I want that other person to read these? And so I thought, “No.” These were for me to dispose of. To literally dispose of the past and move forward. And so with that, I ripped out the pages from the book during July of 1987 on the day my dad died to keep that, kept my first one from when I was very young, and disposed of all the rest. And I’m glad to have them out of the house. I’m glad to see them gone. They were cathartic and necessary and helpful and educational and therapeutic and all that stuff for me when I needed it. But I don’t think they need to be honored on a mantel like a trophy. Our pasts are our pasts, we own them in our heart, but I don’t think they need to be worn on our sleeves. Because if you are an enlightened person, you will have evolved from where you were in your past to be the better person that you are today. Don’t get me wrong, by disposing of them I don’t deny where I am from. I don’t regret the things I have done. While I may cringe at some things, I have come to learn they have made me who I am today. I am a sum total of my decisions, some bad and some good.

But as far as keeping this past on a closet shelf with narrative and content like a bad Judy Blume book, I found it unnecessary. And I didn’t want my kids to see it either. So that’s that. I wipe my hands clean.

So there is still much revelry in my house and my life that I want to share and remember, so I think the name still fits. Andrew has started Kindergarten this year, CJ is already in 4^th grade (yikes!), there are many times throughout the week that there are up to 5 boys at my house engaged in tons of revelry at one time… so there are unending chapters to still write about as I move into my 40s. And I will likely still write things that may make me gasp in years to come and I can always erase this one, too, via one click of the mouse if I so choose to one day. No burning needed here.