Phantom Pain
Missing what never was
I’m trust my memory less and less lately. It’s more than just because it’s starting to forget things all of the time.
It’s because my memory is starting to edit things more and more.
I’ve noticed that whenever I grieve something long enough, my brain starts sanding off all the rough edges. Before I know it, I’m homesick for a place that never existed, a version of a person that never lived, a version of God that never revealed itself outside of a book, or a version of myself that definitely never walked this planet.
Why do I spend so much time lamenting the never was?
This morning, I wrote this poem to help answer that. Not sure I did. But I felt better once I was done.
Phantom Pain
Most of the things I miss
never existed the way I wanted them to.
Like my America.
Like my hometown.
Like my childhood.
Like my parents.
Like God.
Like myself.
I am not haunted by ghosts.
I am haunted by the stories I told myself.
Grief isn’t always an
empty chair at the table.
Sometimes it’s the house that never was.
A nostalgic musical pairing:
If any of this stirred something in you, I’d love to write alongside you sometime.
That’s the whole point of the retreats and workshops I lead. No gates. No badges. No one checking whether you’re allowed to be there. Just a circle of people writing with more desperation than precision, putting their little tiles into the bigger mosaic.
I’m not there to teach you how to write. I’m there to remind you that you already can.
Come find what’s coming up!
Both virtual and in-person experiences!
Makes me realize how often I create my own heart-breaks through expectations.
When my father died, I did not cry. I had no tears for him. I was only sad for all that had not been.