Although I have not posted on this blog for quite some time, and even contemplated deleting it, I have come back to it as a useful means of sharing stories. I am currently trying different formats and whatnot to try and make it visually more appealing, but, since I am pretty terrible at technology, it could be awhile before this blog gets a makeover.
Welcome back! And I hope the reading continues to be enjoyable, thought provoking, and perhaps even inspiring.
I thought about what to write about for my first blog in a long time, and finally decided that I will just write. And share. And hope in that revealing this small part of myself I do not completely embarrass myself.
These are truths. And every story promises to be.
Chupito and Henry
My soul twists and turns like a corkscrew opening wine on a night when you're left alone to drink. My heart hangs heavy, like the moon on a string, sinews snapping.
I thought that I had forgotten. Or at least diluted the memory to a pleasant anecdote. And then, in the midst of yelling, beer cans cracking, and fiberglass shuddering, I saw the face of Chupito in the eyes of Henry, a small three year old. And my heart broke open, nectar spilling onto the floor.
You never truly leave anything behind. Instead it crawls its way into your memory, wriggling into the folds of time until a single moment can bring the entirety of the moment crashing back into the present. I stood watching the hockey game, and then I was sitting on a bench in Guatemala, shaking, trying to inconspicuously wipe tears from my cheeks.
And what does it matter? I am back in America and Chupito is at least six years old by now, somewhere in the maze of Guatemala. I could never find him, even if I wanted to.
And still, it is everything. It matters most of all, because I still cannot leave the feeling that I left Chupito and all the other children at the shelter. And he changed my life more than I will ever be able to change his.
And what can I even write that could come close to the pain and guilt that racked my body later that night, laying in bed, sobbing uncontrollably, and still, tears brought no relief. What we leave behind is often as important as what we take with us.
Still, I float between caring so much that I feel as though I may burst, and being unable to even give a shit, listless and numb towards what happened three years ago. How do we learn from these memories without the pain crippling us, and the indifference bandaging it? How do we find the line between letting it go, while still finding a way to never let it go? Does any of this even make sense?! The painful indifference of someone trying to navigate between this complicated world of past and present.
Yet, still all of this does not feel completely right, as though somewhere in here I am missing something. With honesty and trust, I hope to uncover this missing piece and release it to the air, making these stories all the more invigorating.
I thought that I had forgotten. Or at least diluted the memory to a pleasant anecdote. And then, in the midst of yelling, beer cans cracking, and fiberglass shuddering, I saw the face of Chupito in the eyes of Henry, a small three year old. And my heart broke open, nectar spilling onto the floor.
You never truly leave anything behind. Instead it crawls its way into your memory, wriggling into the folds of time until a single moment can bring the entirety of the moment crashing back into the present. I stood watching the hockey game, and then I was sitting on a bench in Guatemala, shaking, trying to inconspicuously wipe tears from my cheeks.
And what does it matter? I am back in America and Chupito is at least six years old by now, somewhere in the maze of Guatemala. I could never find him, even if I wanted to.
And still, it is everything. It matters most of all, because I still cannot leave the feeling that I left Chupito and all the other children at the shelter. And he changed my life more than I will ever be able to change his.
And what can I even write that could come close to the pain and guilt that racked my body later that night, laying in bed, sobbing uncontrollably, and still, tears brought no relief. What we leave behind is often as important as what we take with us.
Still, I float between caring so much that I feel as though I may burst, and being unable to even give a shit, listless and numb towards what happened three years ago. How do we learn from these memories without the pain crippling us, and the indifference bandaging it? How do we find the line between letting it go, while still finding a way to never let it go? Does any of this even make sense?! The painful indifference of someone trying to navigate between this complicated world of past and present.
Yet, still all of this does not feel completely right, as though somewhere in here I am missing something. With honesty and trust, I hope to uncover this missing piece and release it to the air, making these stories all the more invigorating.
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