Doll Clothes Under the Bed


When I was young, playing with dolls, living in NC young, I found an outfit for my doll hidden under the bed. Accidentally tucked inside a little box or something, this little outfit had been hiding for long enough that I had forgotten about it.

It was this feeling of surprise remembrance delight newness and familiarity all together. 

I loved the feeling so much I started hiding things away to forget about and find later. Caveat being I have a perfect memory for this game, out of sight out of mind. Often I will hang up something I want to wear during the week because if I tuck it in a drawer I may forget for weeks.

I remember choosing one little something that I would hide away and the anticipation of forgetting about it!

It was this feeling, the surprise remembrance delight newness familiarity feeling that I was after. I wanted to set up opportunities for my future self to get to feel this way again.

And it worked.

In some way or another I've been doing this little game with myself since then.

My ability to forget things is unparalleled and I live in preparedness for my future self and a complete distancing from the past until it pops up and surprises me.

I recently found this mug that I used to use all the time when I lived in my Loft as a newly single mama, beautiful greenish brown handmade mug. I had tucked it downstairs when we had guests a year ago along with some other dishes and mugs and bowls.

A fresh cup of coffee found the inside of the mug and my hands were holding it with this strange mix of delight in remembrance and newness of something familiar.

It led me to taking a few photos and then playing with the photos in A Color Story. I sat down to write a post about it, basically this, on Instagram. It felt like it used to. A thoughtful moment, inspired by a moment of discovery or memory, created in a moment of artistic expression of photo and words.

I remember when I first started on social media it felt like the most beautiful connection. When I would post it would be thoughtful, artistic, slow, intense, raw, purposeful. I shared time between social media and my blog and newsletter. Then it seemed, less and less and less anywhere other than social media.

This was fine, good even. I liked this short cut of connection and story telling. I loved meeting people I never would have found any other way (or maybe that isn't true).

And then the climate changed on social media, and it often feels like a dance of shaming. I won't play that game. It has pushed me further and further from wanting to be there (mostly FB), I've been able quite successfully to peel back the beauty from the ugly of it all but when less and less beauty exists and voices are talking when we should be listening and the refusal to acknowledge life is gray and this intense need for followers and attention and to be louder and more right and shame others as an attempt to not look at ourselves, I just don't want it.

I'm slowing down, looking for other ways, seeking new forms of connection and sharing stories and listening and trying to find the little piece of it hidden under the bed because I know something is there, I know I've left myself crumbs to find something already familiar that I just can't remember. I've taken care of myself in this way for as long as I can remember. Hiding something away that will eventually bring me to the feeling my past self planted for me.

I know I did this when I stopped drinking.

When I stopped drinking it wasn't a big announcement. There was no declaration, in fact, I didn't want to talk about it. It would be months before I would understand it myself. I knew I needed to be in it, I felt it deep in my gut and it sucked. Hard. Still if I'm honest, I'm still in the shitty part of it.

I think my past self was simply leading me to a feeling. Like she always finds ways of doing. Each new marker of time without drinking, like first Thanksgiving or Christmas, talking to Dave about having alcohol at home, realizing I wasn't truly claiming it, first girls weekend, all these markers of time lead me to these wild feelings.

My past self was gently arranging the future to be free of addictions, something familiar and new and surprising and sometimes, mostly now, full of delight.

Back to Instagram and the photo and caption of the mug, basically this newsletter in shorthand. OK, so I have a theory that when you use a banned hashtag or post too many drafts, Instagram blocks you from posting by saying, "Waiting for a better internet connection." Theory. I have no real idea, but it has happened to me in both circumstances.

When I couldn't post it I was in that WTF Instagram feeling, I went down the rabbit hole of screw social media, blah blah blah.

And then as it does, my tiny personal light bulb that goes off over my head went ding!

Go blog. Go write in your home, not Instagram's. Go explore what it used to be like before the shortcuts that led to incredible time sucks. I've never ever felt bad about spending 3 hours writing on my blog or for a newsletter. Go be there. Go be home. Go find the little box of clothes under the bed. Keep looking, you are getting closer.

While you are at it, send a newsletter will you? Oh, and kiss your man for meeting you in total love and support around the not drinking thing. And tea. It is time for tea and...

I see you. I adore you. I appreciate you. Thank you for being here with me.