Let the Pain In

My mom used to have this album: it reminds me so much of her.

I was sitting in yoga class, cross-legged as Enya sang, and I was reminded so much of home.

Here, holding my thumb to my index finger, I willed bad memories to my head. Better to feel them now, during waking hours, during a healing time, than right before bed so my sleep is riddled with unsavoury dreams. But the thoughts would not come, even when I drew them in my mind, tried to string together bits and pieces of my unlived life. Those memories stayed hidden somewhere, unwilling to materialize as emotions, stagnant only as pictures, images.

Am I so private, so isolated, that the very thought of sharing emotion sends my memories running out of my concious reach? Or it it more lovely than that? Am I starting to heal? Starting to meditate instead of ruminate? Starting to accept instead of blame? Maybe it is all true: maybe there is a little part of me who's quiet and private, another who's ashamed of the past; and, miraculously, another who is helping to heal these other two.