The other day, whilst poking around in the always amusing semi-chaos of My Documents folder, I came across a long-forgotten relic that had been carefully copied from hard drive to hard drive, dating all the way back to the PC equivalent of the Stone Ages.
It was a three year archive of the very first online journal I ever had. Yes, your prolific Scarlett has been spewing deep thoughts and rambling commentary on the interwebs for 13 years now, reaching far back to before “blog” was part of the vernacular and Prince’s “1999″ was still relevant.
In retrospect, I don’t know what compelled me to open that folder; the years between 18 and 21 were fraught with exceeding amounts of angst, heartache and generally difficult times. But I stayed up for hours and hours reading those entries, dredging up a trove of emotions that had been long-buried in the depths of memory. It was all there: the simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying last months of high school; the disastrous flirtation with “alternative religions”; the loss of two extremely close friendships; the house fire that left us homeless and me on academic probation after one semester of college; the English boy who stole my heart from afar; the local ex-lover who stole a kiss and messed with my head; the solemn passing of the baton from being a teenager to an adult – all spilled on the digital page without thought of eloquence or restraint.
And then, I deleted it. Every single word.
Too often, I find that people live their lives anchored in the past. I suppose I’ve been blessed in that my long-term memories have mostly become hazy vignettes, faded by the patina of time and dimmed by the more vivid hues of recent experience. So while my trip down memory lane was at times bewildering and bemusing, embarrassing and enlightening, it ultimately needed to be let go – both from its well worn place on my hard drive, and its brief hold on my thoughts. Holding myself up to the measuring stick of the past – or worse, berating myself for anything I may have felt, done, or experienced back then – wasn’t going to do me any favors. So I let it all go, and in doing so, I turned my thoughts to more recent events that deserve similar treatment. To quote a clichéd but perfectly accurate lyric: “forget regret, or life is yours to miss”.
So here I am, with another birthday only a few weeks hence, and I feel so far removed from that girl of 21 who held onto her fears, anxieties, heartbreaks – who used them a safety blanket to hide behind, or as armor to harden against life’s turmoils and trials. And everything really does feel like a trial when you’re that age, doesn’t it? Things that used to bring me to my knees back then seem so insignificant now; the true testimony of wisdom brought on by age. That’s one reason why it perplexes me when people mumble and moan about getting older. Sure, we miss the relative vibrancy of our youth – but do you really want to pine for a time when every little thing felt like the Biggest Deal Ever? When we didn’t have the skills to cope and carry on; when we lacked the essential life experience to help us put things into perspective and understand what really matters?
I look forward to turning 31; after all, the first 25 years or so of my life were positively vanilla, and it’s only been in the last half-dozen that I’ve added some spice; a dash of chili pepper in my chocolate, so to speak. Birthdays are meant to be celebratory, after all – and what’s the point of living if you don’t look forward to experiencing life?
But if I may indulge in a final lick of reminiscing … how would I describe the flavor of the first year of my 30s? I’d call it rich and complex, with bittersweet undertones and delicious hints of heat. The best part, though, is that it’s a combination unique to me and my experiences – and one worth relishing, for a time. And when June 1st dawns and my next year of life begins anew, I’ll treat it as an opportunity to eat, drink, be merry, and celebrate the flavors yet to come.
