The pile of photo albums sit on the living room floor, ominous and profound. What does one do with ten f*&^%$ years of photo albums. I am somehow afraid to touch them, afraid to open the pages and experience the array of emotions therein. The utter shock at the unfolding of my own life is indescribable.
It has been a year and a half since I left, physically. I can no longer even pinpoint when I left emotionally.
There have been various stages and baggage of my former life, some of the material relics are the most difficult to contend with. I have moved things from one spot to another, repeatedly, feeling as though I had accomplished something each time, only to realize it only moved accross the room. Books, letters, things purchased from a faraway place, although Ive had no problem with jewelry whatsoever. I wear it unabashed and am able to competely seperate it's meaning from it's esthetic value. So, I begin to analyze this and take it a step further.
As I sit down on the floor to flip through these pictures, because as I have learned, the only way out is through, I try to slant the judgment and perspective of the memory. In otherwords, I seperate the loss from the memory and enjoy it for it's place and value in my own life personally. I stop squinting at the face and spewing accusations at him, I stop seeing the kind, needy, hurt side of him and feeling guilt.
I look for hints of what was coming, signs inbetween the stoic body language. There is no denying the images and the hope they suggest. I look into my own eyes, startled at the bliss that only youth and inexperience can have. Recalling my confidence and certainty, I cringe, recognizing that the girl in the photo is long gone. There is a kindof humility that seems to come with divorce. To realize that all my best efforts and plans can be so derailed, and I will still be REQUIRED to pick up myself and move on, and god forbid, get dressed and wipe the milk from my lips before going in public is...humbling. I walk to the mirror of my bathroom and peer in, looking for an answer or a similarity to the younger me, I am surprised to find calmness. comfort. peace. I look deeper still and see an openness that a perfect life wouldnt have demanded. Then, I remember that the definition of humility is "being teachable". So, I celebrate wisdom. There on the floor with my documents. The proof of my marriage and past 10 years. I briefly question the need for photographs at all, thinking that whatever the mind can bear on it's own should be sufficient. Perhaps merciful.
I claim my past, as my own. These memories belong to me, and I visited these places and had beautiful experiences in many of them, and they are part of me.I will not give them back or erase them because of some pain and loss. I will seperate them and deeply enjoy the parts that belong to me, Much like my jewelry. I will celebrate and focus on the love and friendship that once united two human beings, I will take my own judgements out of the way to allow an evolution that is not burdened by negativity or hassled by injustice. I believe, for my own life, there must be acceptance, grace and love. Exclusively.