{ pour moi-meme }

keeping track || photo by she

in the early morning (or the very late night, recently it's hard to distinguish which and i don't waste much time trying) i taped this piece of paper to my wall. this vertical stretch of turquoise stands watch over me while i sleep, and i felt compelled to start filling it with constructive objects (the ashleyg porcelain artwork is one of my favorite possessions, gifted to me by my best bird).

over the past few years i've journaled sparingly, not wanting to immortalize the heaviness i've felt. previously, writing was how i got through life. lately i'm almost afraid of it. i think about things too much sometimes --- i think if i start to write the sad feelings, they'll overcome me. i think if i only write happy feelings, that's one-dimensional and not very honest. so i don't write at all.

i decided that i need to just start making space for myself to write. informal, non-pressured, readily available space to write anything. the concept of sitting down at a specific time with the particular intention to write something good is totally uninspiring right now. so i put up this paper and decided it's a space for anything i feel like writing down: sadnesses, triumphs, fragments of poetry remembered or created, song lyrics, scripture, thoughts dark or light.

i always carry a small moleskine in my purse (sometimes two, of varying sizes, so i can write or draw depending on the need). when i was in college, in every nook and cranny of my life you could find poetry, observations, and hopes scribbled on receipts, napkins, brochures --- all and any paper real estate was fair game. i may not be in a manic state of expression like i was back then, but i'm an articulate soul who is constantly seeking verbalization and understanding. i've kept this part of myself crouched in a very small closet for a long time. maybe i needed that; maybe i've done myself a disservice. but disregarding the lose-lose trial of what i should have done, i think it's time to open the door and step out again. stretch my cramped muscles. who knows what strength has been gathering in the semi-darkness of my heart? who knows what i am capable of now?

strangely enough, what i feel is some of my best writing often emerges in emails to friends. something about the blank rectangular confessional of a compose window calls forth my deepest, most profound energies and insights. i wrote to jillian this morning:

i want you to know that being in the west with you has begun to teach me to be better to myself. there's a sparkling bottle of bombay sapphire on my counter, there are vegetables in my refrigerator, and i stay up late watching movies or listening to music if i want to. i've become incredibly rusty at being independent even though i've spent the majority of my time alone for the past 3 years. i want to get good at it again. i've taken to wearing nothing less than 4-inch heels and taking my time sauntering down the streets. behind my sunglasses i'm thinking: this strength, this beauty, it's only for me. so if you want me, come and claim me.

she