It may or may not be the case that I post.
The lesson in the head is that it’s too much. It’s too much a flash of memory and light and the smells of the first Lyft and the taste of the radish in the salad and the nerves and the self-soothing and the JOY times a million and there aren’t really words that are easily accessible to put all of this neatly together in five hundred words or so.
But does the trip, then, therefore, slip into obscurity not an hour after returning to my own threshold? When I have every capacity to take a few notes that might spark my thoughts and memories and bring me back to a warm, nearly hallowed version of myself.
Because this is remarkable. While I was amongst thousands, and met very kind people, some of whom felt very much my kin, and others completely unfamiliar, I travelled myself away. I spent the weekend with myself and I did not accuse or stress myself out for my imperfections, I did not deny myself or shame myself, I did not opt out of the plans I had laid out for myself to do and go sit, hidden away, in the hotel room out of anxiety. I wanted, I planned, I activated myself and it happened.
Maybe I spent a bit more than I should have, but it’s budgeted, it’s planned for, it’s okay. And that okayness led me to be in a room with people I admire so much, doing a thing I find to be truly a gift in my life, and I had deep joy and delight in watching them perform. I didn’t have to accommodate anyone else’s plans. Didn’t have to concern myself with the timing of others. I could just go and do and spin around in the massive hotel bathroom and be the dork we all know me to be.
Of course, everything that happened, the minutiae of the first blush of Indianapolis, the roundabout back way we went to the hotel that was through these elegant neighborhoods where it seemed like 2018 was an inaccessible edge of the universe that mortals would never know. Permanently, if elegantly, behind, and in green trees. All of that which only I can know, only….I can know. I don’t share these memories with anyone who can talk to me about them. People care, but only to the degree that something about their own lives is sparked when I talk about it. That’s a lonely feeling. I’ve come home to that, but I have also come home to a lot of positivity. To the usual self-reckoning that can push me a bit further than ever before towards the Grand Plan’s final stage rather than it’s first.
Tomorrow: perhaps, if I believe very hard, my first D&D game, a rite of passage, is to occur. I have copper dice. I have a backstory. I have a character sheet.
I am so glad to have at least this much. To have dug my heels in today.