Memories

Memories are palpable. Like when I’m transported back to the wooden slats squeaking during the plies in ballet class just by a smell or how freshly cut grass and a hot sun takes me to New Hampshire or New York clad in a uniform to march with the Patriots Drum Corps. Breathe in. Breathe out. The crowd roars. The piano brings the little girls’ heads to the teacher. That all feels like an eternity ago now.

Yet as vivid as some memories are, they feel fragmented. There are times I feel like I’m losing memories. I am forgetting things and this feels like a personal failure of mine. I berate myself to write it down. Write it down, Thomsen! Write down how my father made me breakfast in bed for the entire 6th (or 7th?) grade year just because he wanted to. Write down the memories of the frigid Snake River as I waded into it to go fishing with my dad. Write down how my dad would wait for me to get home, silent and smiling, just to give me a hug. Write down the heartbreak and the longing and the happiness and the mysteries that are daily life. Write down the random thoughts about the band hall or the Gator uniform I once donned or the first day of college. Write down the time Robert and I stayed up until 3am to play monopoly. Write down the time we went to three countries in three months and he got stung by a sting ray. Write down the time the (winged) bat landed in my hair right after my Maid of Honor speech. Write down the beauty of snorkeling in Costa Rica or the insane golf carts in Belize.

As adults, we are faced with proverbial internet trolls and the general notion that we are no longer allowed to question things. We. Must. Have. It. All. Figured. Out. Does that hinder us from opening ourselves up? Does that hinder me from remembering or writing down moments to commit to memory?

I’ve recently discovered something. I really don’t handle criticism well. Not like many people do.

“I am amaaaaaaazing at hearing that people don’t like me or disagree or are being hurtful just because.” Riiiiiight. I have a voracious appetite for trying new things (looking at you ballroom classes, Crossfit, moving to multiple new states, joining Drum Corps, hiring a tennis pro, remodeling a house, etc.) Yet why do I ever stop? Why did I stop blogging on here? Surely it isn’t because my life actually is all figured out (alas, as much as I wish it was, that would be a farce). The honest answer is because of an internet troll who I somehow let me feel like the smallest and dumbest person on the planet. I didn’t handle criticism. I had an anonymous critic drag me through the mud with words and it still bothers me to this day. Though the act of blogging (exposing honest thoughts and dialogue on the world wide web) seems slightly insane, you’d hope the reader would respect this and not rain on your parade. Nope.

I remember life in New Mexico and how often I blogged. The memory of looking forward to sitting in a little cafe with my computer to bang out my adventures on my keyboard. Then love happened. Life happened. Awful things were said by a stranger and I closed myself off. Down went the record of memories.

That’s not sustainable. So here we go. I want to remember. I want to capture these moments so my future children can see who I was here and now. I want to capture these moments so I can remember.

Time for more adventures.

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