I'm still new to this whole blogging thing. I feel like there must be a code of blogdom out there that I haven't had access to yet or something. Do I just write about myself and my days and my thoughts? Do I write these things for myself? Or do I write for an audience? If so, who? I get nervous sometimes, because my words seem to orbit around my self.
What I mean is, I don't want to treat this like a narcissistic diary.
But, I also want to share what is on my mind. So, beware, I'm still finding the balance.
I've been thinking a lot about my past lately, and how it's become somewhat disconnected from my present state. My endless folders of photos have become foreign relics from time past, and I have been transfixed flipping through them. Thinking to myself, "Oh yeah, I did that," and "Oh, I did that?"
In the perusing, I stumbled upon this photo from Scenic Point Trail in Glacier National Park, where I spent three wild summers discovering part of who I am. I was brought back to the moment instantly. This long-dead, wind-stripped and sun-bleached tree instantly took hold of me. Standing under, looking up, I recognized it.
The first boy I thought I loved had taken almost the same exact picture of the same exact tree two summers before. When I took this one, he was out of my life, with a bitter, unresolved end. The idea of paths - crossing, tangling, overlapping, backtracking - struck me. Here I was, where he had been, and where was he now? And where were we going?
I also recognized it as a reincarnation of my favorite paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe. During a trip to Minneapolis the year before, I had seen an exhibit of her pelvis paintings. I couldn't get over her depiction of a milky white pelvis against a drowning blue sky. The starkness, the depth, the vulnerability, the strength. Something shattered inside me when I saw them. And I felt the same fragments rattle and shake within me when I looked up at this tree.
Our pasts are so rich, and our lives are so cyclical.
I can't get over the way time churns.