I’ve emerged from a restless funk sullied with heavy questions. I like restlessness when a story comes from it or when it circles the rim of a tea glass. I feel it coming on like the still of the grass before the rain or the taste of spring like yellow dust on my tongue. But this bout left like a visit from your mother–seeing through you, leaving you with knee-jerk reactions, then stuff to work through, and then sharp awareness. I wrestled with it through all these real snapshots that I want to share for two reasons: they belong in the memory box because they are real, and they show that women–for real–are always in two places at once (in the mind, and at the moment).
I got to see this from inside.
The stars aligned, and I got to watch my brother get his first tattoo.
We got to take 16 pictures in front of the Persian New Year sofreh.
I got to (try to) capture my favorite glow coming through the windows.
I visited the past with new eyes.
And I stopped for the thousandth time to feel what the sky was offering me.
I’m short-posting it tonight. Since I’m figuring out my words, I’ll leave it to my girl Lindbergh to do what she always does for me. She wrote it before I knew I felt it.
“When we start at the center of ourselves, we discover something worthwhile extending toward the periphery of the circle. We find again some of the joy in the now, some of the peace in the here, some of the love in me…But there are other beaches to explore. There are more shells to find.”
Memory Box Mom 