Hi there!
How’s the start to your week going? Hopefully everything is looking up!
I just wanted to let you know a couple things. First, if you emailed me about taking part in my “the one that got away” podcast, I’m going to try and set up times to have a little conversation sometime this week or the next. And if you haven’t contacted me but are interested, please send me a message! (greysonferguson@gmail.com).
And second, while I’ve been dragging on my little travel memoir videos of late, I finally finished one. So, if you have a few minutes to watch a video about visiting Arizona, feel free to check it out!
Other than that, I hope you have an amazing rest of the week.
Your friend,
Greyson
Forgetting How To Love
My unmarked cab sped down the Lima highway. Night and curfew had thinned traffic to nearly non-existent, yet the roar of the muffler-less Camry screamed at my alcohol-soaked brain like a million voices.
I wanted to close my eyes. To sleep. But even the fog of gin and tonic failed to prevent me from worrying about the car and its authenticity.
My companion didn’t seem to mind.
Her head rested against my shoulder. Her hand curled around mine. She felt safe. Protected. But who would protect the protector? So I stayed awake.
Vibrations in the seat intensified as the car flipped to a higher gear. There are hotel rooms where these kinds of seat vibrations are purchased. I had no change, but I paid with a shaken headache and queasy stomach.
Perhaps the car, in its own way, was helping. Shaking off dust and debris from the crevices of my mind, in an attempt to reveal her name. The woman at my side. My date for the evening.
What was her name?
Did it even matter? Would I somehow fall in love with her? Could I somehow fall in love with her?
Because that was the problem. Beyond her name. Beyond the night. Beyond it all.
I couldn’t remember how to love.
Forgotten
The woman left with exchanged promises of seeing each other soon.
I enjoyed our time. A mutual connection. A natural flow of conversation, laughs, eye contact, and playful touching.
It felt good.
But incomplete.
Something was missing, and I didn’t know what. I didn’t know where to look. Everything should have added up, but the math proved incorrect.
I should have fallen for the woman. She possessed everything I desired. She offered everything I needed. And yet I felt empty. Somewhere in my heart, I’d sprung a leak. I could fill it with love one moment, find it draining empty the next.
What had happened to me?
Had I forgotten how to love? Or had the ability barricaded itself somewhere in my brain, isolating it from the rest of my mental world. A fortified protection unwilling to make an exception and lower its gate.
I remembered the woman’s name. But we never saw each other again.
Maybe we didn’t have as strong of a connection as I thought. Or maybe she could feel the emptiness inside of me. The cold draft blew through my chest and into hers.
Nobody likes a drafty heart.
Or one that’s forgotten how to love.
A Long Time
I haven’t used my heart in a long time.
It hasn’t been needed.
Following a divorce that left me shattered, I swept up the pieces, hiding them away from the world. I found the best way to protect my heart was to not have one.
And so I continued on. For months. For years. I would not let myself become attached. I would not open up. Had I opened my chest to reveal a gaping hole, I don’t know how another would have taken it. If they could even understand it.
I traveled and avoided interactions, using these excuses to hide my truth. That I was afraid.
As time spun its web I began reassembling the pieces of the broken heart. An imageless puzzle, pieces rarely fit and never stuck. I had to remold and stitch it together. The Frankenstein monster would have found it grotesque.
But I hid behind the facade of not wanting a connection. Of hiding away, I knew, in an honest moment, I craved a connection.
But would the reassembled heart be able to hold love? Or would it drip through the imperfect cracks and unskilled stitching? Would I even know how to use it?
Trying to Remember
Some things you remember how to do for life. Muscle memory takes control and it’s like old times. But not everything is muscle memory.
I played violin growing up. I started at the age of four. I continued through high school until I had only so much time to dedicate to specific activities. So playing the instrument, something I’d done for several hours every day, went away. I focused on college, life, and all the other requirements that go into it. As I went on, my memory of the violin acclimated mental dust.
Years later, I decided to buy an electric violin. I’d always wanted one. Thousands of hours of classical music gave me an appreciation for the style, and a strong desire to try something else. After purchasing the electric violin I had my mother send me some of the old sheet music from my past. And that’s when I realized I’d forgotten how to read music. How to make the mind to body connection of reading and performing in real-time. My body, to its credit, would remember certain songs and could segments, although my fingers were not as fast as they once were.
It’s frustrating to relearn what you already knew. To struggle at something you were once good at. All I could do was swallow down the frustration and focus on practicing. On learning.
Not to say I possess any great skill at love. It’s less exact science and more art, and yet it takes practice. Falling in love with someone takes no special skill, but showing and sharing that love does. And after years of mending and protecting myself, I’m all out of practice.
I’ve forgotten how to love.
Does the rebuilt heart require a sudden jolt? A shot of electricity to force it to pump.
I’m not sure what to look for. Like searching for a diamond without ever having seen a diamond. Will I just know it when I see it, or will I be forced to stop and inspect every small rock of emotion that comes my way?
I don’t know.
Forgotten, But Not Gone
I wonder what could have happened with the woman in the car. Had I been able to open up and not reveal the scarred tissue of a damaged past. We all have scars. Damaged hearts and battered minds. The burden of history slung over shoulders.
Maybe none of that bothered her. Maybe everything went fine and my searching for love caused me to miss what she offered in front of me. I searched the bigger picture with a magnifying glass and ended up missing the bigger picture.
But next time I’ll do better. I won’t make that same mistake.
After all, I’m only learning.
A travel story I wrote several years ago: Travel for the Soul (Even if You Don’t Have One)
A retelling of my failed honeymoon as I experience the same journey a decade later: I retraces my steps, from Miami to Machu Picchu, as I looks to recover what's lost and discover if it's possible to find oneself while traveling for the soul.