Reading, Writing, Grieving and Moving

I have spent my entire life thinking I was not important. That my thoughts weren’t important. That it wasn’t important for me to keep a record of my life. I think I was raised to be attuned to external validation. This idea that things you do or say are only important if there are people around to witness and then approve of them. A terrible way to live.

I bought this laptop on vacation in Denver — a Lenovo Yoga, beautiful silver thing, light too. I told my parents it was for work, to tackle the mountain of compliance that is heaping onto my schedule as my kids age and my business grows. But I felt a pang of sadness last night. I was browsing online and saw a photo for Spike Lee’s 2015 movie Chi-Raq. A flood of memories returned. I was in Chicago in 2015. Had just bought a house. Had a new baby. Had a husband. My life doesn’t look like that anymore. I instinctively reached for my Lenovo to write. By the time I fumbled around and figured out my WordPress login the urge to write was gone. I had gone down another internet rabbit hole. But I realized that this laptop is a recording tool.

You have to write. You just do. Life is this collection of millions of moments and there has to be some mechanism. Some way to feel them, to sort them, to observe them, to witness them. Writing, meditation, something.

As I settle into my divorce and my mid 30s, alone-ness — and sometimes loneliness — become more constant in my life. But one thing I’ve noticed is that many people before me have written about their lives. We all think we’re the only person to go through something — we’re not. That’s why I need to read.

Grieving — that’s just because my heart has been broken again and again.

I left Jamaica, my home, and my parents at age 17.

I left Chicago — the new home I’d spent a decade establishing for myself — at age 31.

I left my marriage at age 32.

All of this hurts. The topsoil of my life is my kids, my business, exploring New York.

The underground river is these memories, swirling, sometimes rushing, a constant stream of melancholy watering the roots. I don’t spend enough time at that river. I think if I did maybe I could make peace with some of this grief. Stare it in the face, acknowledge it so that maybe I could release some of it. I’ve known for a while that I need to make pilgrimages to these places. To finish the emotional business.

Moving — I’m sagging, lol. Plain and simple. I am still a very beautiful woman. I’m self-aware enough to know that. But I feel the changes. The way the fat is shifting in my butt and the skin is loosening. The lack of tautness in my breasts and my belly. It doesn’t necessarily bother me. It does fascinate me though, lol. It reminds me that, at this stage, I need to help my body out a bit more than I had to in my 20s. In my 20s exercise, drinking water, sleeping well was more about vanity — the preservation and enhancement of beauty. In my 30s, these habits are about health. Keeping my bones strong, my mind clear, my stamina high.

So in 2020, my goal is to do more writing, reading, grieving and moving.