I sit here, mismatched socks, in between hours of night, cavity in my tooth, and I marvel over nostalgias uncanny ability to greet our memories with much more kindness, softness, vivacity than we ever recall them having.
The human ability to feel is, in my humble opinion, the bravest quality we have. It takes heart to live, it takes guts to remember. We are homes to lives, bodies to emotion bigger than the walls that confine it. And we walk into war each time we tell someone how we are. It's a battle field in there, the memory.
But nostalgia is a wise, unrelenting teacher that shows up and tells us that things were never quite as bad as we thought they were. And that the things we thought were good, quite frankly were a hell of a lot better than we gave them credit for.
And so I'm sitting here tonight, a student in my desk, listening to nostalgia teach me how vivid my life has been. And the flashing, pulsing uniqueness that it has carried me with. I refuse to downplay my awe, out of the fear of remembering pain. I want to remember it all, in pounding, echoing volumes, i want to look back on my life and say, YES, I felt that, I felt it big.
You know that one time when you were 16 and the sunroof was open and every single window was down? The sun was tap dancing on the horizon, afraid to go down for the night, afraid it would miss seeing you. And there was that song playing, you never remember which one, but you know it well. Your hands are off beat, drumming on your knees. And this is who you are, in this moment, this is it. Odd and unaware, beaming and humming, a blindfolded musician, a passenger seat astronaut, floating above reality.
These are the moments we're created for. These are them. Unplanned and imperfect, painfully ordinary, loud and important. I sit here, slapping my knee at the humor of how cripplingly awake we have been when all along we weren't even certain we had opened our eyes.
Quit letting your memory sharpen the edges of the softness your life has written. Quit hiding from the lessons pain has carried on its back for you. Do not sprint in the other direction when change offers you its number. You are a living, breathing bizzaro story. And you are telling it just fine.