Going Back

I think I've probably written about this tendency of mine before, here on this blog, but I'm uncharacteristically too lazy to go back and look for it. I recall a visit to San Diego, during which I went back to a restaurant where the ex and I had had our fifth anniversary (and my birthday) dinner. I simply stood across the street from the restaurant, and remembered the occasion, and felt sad, felt sorrowful, felt the weight of the time that had passed between that celebration and the night I stood there again, and simply...was. In that space, with the reality. 

Last summer I had thought of going back to St. Paul and Minneapolis (I've been resisting "the Twin Cities" because my experience is distinctly different in these two cities, and they feel distinctly different, culturally, in spite of their seeming proximity). But it was clear, from the vantage point of Duluth, that I was nowhere near ready. It felt like it would be altogether too painful. 

This summer, at a remove of two years from my last extended visit, which surrounded a huge botany conference down in Rochester, I decided it was time. So, here I am. On Kellogg Street, within walking distance of 4th and Wabasha, where I stayed a few times. Last night, I had dinner at Cosetta, ice cream at Izzy's (sadly, the St. Paul location is no more, but it was only about 15 minutes to the one in Minneapolis), made a quick trip to a place on Hiawatha that held some of the best memories, and to Minnehaha Park and Falls at sunset. Then, back at the hotel, a quick walk to Wabasha, The Grey Duck, and the general area around the Wabasha Street bridge. 

Today, lunch at Key's Cafe on Robert. 

I will be here two more nights, but tomorrow is fairly full with a demo lesson for a school in LA from 1-2, and interviews with another school from 2-6:15, all via Zoom. 

I know why I am here. I lived it, and I need to honor it before, or while, moving on. I don't move on the way other people seem to, or the way I have been advised to. I tend to move on by going back. I need to feel it in my heart, and own it. I don't do well forgetting, or "detaching," or even just letting go, without some kind of cathartic encounter. I have learned this much about myself. 

Looking north up the Mississippi from Ford Parkway

One of the places

I've never missed anyone more than I miss someone through this process, but that's just one part of it. The larger part is that it is a way of memorializing a past and remembering the gifts of it, and showing up for where my heart actually is. There's a truth and reconciliation aspect to this kind of side quest through Hades. I have known, from other times that I have done this, that it may be excruciating, it may be so dark and sorrowful as to be nearly unsustainable, but the end result is a much greater integration, acceptance, peace, and serenity. 

In recovery, it's called no longer regretting the past nor wishing to shut the door on it. Being here, and grieving while celebrating, and remembering that grieving is a way of saying: "something was worth the praise of being grieved," I am especially made aware of how closed off and protective I had become. Brittle, expending a lot of energy on pushing away the reality of my life at this time and in the past. I'm reminded that it is okay to stop that. It won't kill me to be sad, to miss someone, to remember, and remember, and remember, and to grieve. 

It's not for everyone, I get that. But I know myself well enough to know that, if I want to make peace with the truth, it is one of the steps on the path. To go to the heart of the past. To bear witness to my former self and what he was able to do. To honor the truth of it. And to not be afraid. 

To hold a tender place of praise for what was possible and is no more, but what is still possible nevertheless. I think we underestimate terribly the great value of staying tender.