words

I grabbed one of my old external hard drives to look at photos of flower arrangements I used to enjoy making. I plugged in the drive and it was not there in my finder.

A quick phone call to my smart techy brother and I was in file recovery mode. I had to transfer thousands of photos to my other drive.

There was a folder labeled Writing. I used to write everyday with out fail. So much changes as we age.

I opened it up and read.

I got lost in my words of the past. My life in Europe where I seemed to love grander, where my senses where all in constant use and my brain tried to apply metaphor to all experiences.

There are some pieces I found that I would love to publish but they are so personal, so raw. I don’t write like that anymore and perhaps I don’t even feel like that anymore. Is this a consequence of old age?

Or was it the freedom I had as an expatriate? I wrote for my blog like no one else was reading. Or is it my country? And our lack of romanticism?

Is it stagnation? The lack of movement, of travel, that breeds no prose?

I read these passages that I wrote in such detail, like the first time I had met that love of so many years. I wrote about what he was wearing, what I was wearing, what I was doing the moment we first saw each other. These details have been completely lost on me. This magnificent life I had lead was just a foggy memory.

I am so glad, I wrote all those years. I have bookshelves of journals at my mother’s house from the ages of 16-30. So many details. So many stories that have escaped my memory.

I inherited this cataloging trait, recording details, from my Turkish grandfather. We went to visit him in Calgary only months before he passed. He has albums and journals and artifacts appropriately  labeled and shelved in chronological order.It was an obsession I can relate to, a way to hold on to this wildly adventurous life.

As his kin, I am glad he did it. His record keeping helped me understand my family and our roots.

I am not sure what will ever become of my words or what the point is but I do know for a second tonight, I was transported back in time. I could smell France, I could feel her soils beneath my feet. I remembered what it was like to be intoxicated by love.  I remembered what it was like to have my taste buds scream for more, what it was like to sit down each night at a long table and really, truly converse.

And here I am, living in a National Park, of off Highway One on the coast of California and there is no prose, there are no details.  I am living a dream, some would say.

There’s visual documenting but the words are so important. And I don’t even have internet or mobile service. What’s my excuse?

I will try to write again. Perhaps a trip is in order. Or a ritual. Or slowing down. My mom tells me I need to hike less and focus. A good problem to have.

Even settled, the road is always life. There are always stories, there is always romance, you just have to be open.