Home Town

I always said I'd never move back to my home town.

I was so against everything that was familiar. I rejected the notion that I was a part of a place and time (and town) for a period of time and that would factor into who I became.

But. Home, dear friends, can be therapy.

My natural instinct is to shy away from anything public or open-forum when I'm hurting. I recall events and emotions very well after time has passed. Usually years. But fresh pain is sacred territory. And I don't feel right about sharing anything painful while it's happening because it's too much. Kind of like the first day or so after you've burned yourself. You can't jump in the shower without that familiar and unwanted sting.

I ignored this blog for a few weeks because of some things that went on that I couldn't control and/or have the clarity to write about. And that is silly. Because I'm human and you're human and it's all about the human experience, right? I feel what you feel. Even if one or both of us refuses to acknowledge it.

So let's talk about boundaries.

What is it about a proverbial line in the sand that raises hackles? Those that have been around the longest have an unspoken need and self-fulfilled right to anything going on in their loved one's lives. Thoughts, feelings and physical goings-on are all fodder for debate and discussion.

But, really: they aren't.

So when I draw an appropriate line to someone whom I respect and admire, and they balk, I'm left with a basket of messy emotions that I didn't choose to confront. I think I am guilty of expecting too much from some, and not enough from others. And when expectations aren't met, I am heartbroken.

Nonetheless, I deal with heartbreak exponentially better as an adult than I did as an adolescent.

I get out.

I breathe.

I look.

I document.

I smile.

I speak to strangers.

I take pictures.

And I write.

Thank God for Puyallup. My home town.

Writing

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy." (Stephen King, On Writing)


Back in November, I wrote an essay about failure (re: here) I threw caution to the wind, sent it off to a contact at a website and she published it. One of my nearest and dearest friends, the same friend I had been lamenting to regarding the lack of creativity in my life and my deep and dire need to start 'doing what I love, ' (whatever that was), sent me a text after reading the article. And the text went something like this: "WTF? I didn't know you could write! Holy sh*t girl, you need to be writing!" Clearly, I'm paraphrasing. She'll vouch though.

About a month ago, I was assisting a friend with a photoshoot. Mind you, this girl is crazy talented. Naturally good behind a camera, and so patient with all my brain-picking and question-asking. During post photoshoot beers (and post God-awful downpour) she looks at me and says something like this: "You need to be writing." Again: paraphrasing.

Two weeks later, I'm waiting for a plane to California. An older lady and I are splitting a table, and against my introversion instinct, we're chatting about life. And the conversation went like this:

Her: So what do you do?
Me: I'm in investments.
Her: ...(silence).... Hmph.
Me: Not what you thought, huh?
Her: I woulda' pegged you for a writer.
Me: I've heard that before... What about you?
Her: I'm a retired English professor.

This time, I'm not paraphrasing. That conversation is etched into my brain.

So, this post isn't about affirmations regarding me writing or what I write or when I should write or any of that. I guess it's a way of throwing it out into the universe that I get it.

I get it.

Now what?