Nursing a Wound
I'm not entirely sure what to say about this one, other than (1) I've been enjoying my hands-in-pockets walks around New York with Modern Love in my ears, and (2) parts of this felt so so so searingly hard-hitting. Isn't it true that we all carry our own stories, that each has aspects of surprise and hardship, of love and recovery, of wounds that become scars that become stories that become memories. And that life ticks ever on with or without our permission.
As 2017 became 2018, as my naturally reflective mind became a little bit more forward-focused, as I sat with ambitions for what lies ahead, as I realized that Spring Training is happily closer and that somewhere there are some garaged, dormant lawnmowers waiting to give the world that beautiful smell of freshly-clipped grass, as I bought my first book of 2018 in the Philadelphia airport, as I came up with my new (and rather unintelligent) impression and tested it a FEW times in front of a piña-colada-drinking Austin audience, as I decided that the "see you next year!" people on December 31 are roughly as intolerable as the "Hey! You're not wearing any green!" people on St. Patrick's Day who are roughly as intolerable as the "I sure am but you can't SEE it!" responders on St. Patrick's Day, and as I gather myself this evening for what will hopefully be an amount of snow that turns the park out my window white and lets me stay inside on my couch near the heater with something to read or maybe even get out and slide down my street and pack snowballs I can throw at randomly selected targets as I walk, I realized that our stories -- my story -- can be broadly categorized using the terms from the first paragraph, but that it's also littered with beautiful moments from this one.
Whether you consider anything similar as you listen to this podcast is something I can't know. But I do hope that it spurs in you what this episode of Modern Love does for me: go and be in love with something and perhaps smile at it and really really really let yourself fall into feeling some sort of way about it because you must know it's unique and you must know it isn't owed to you and you must hear that heart-clack which is of a different intensity than usual, and then do the best goddamn thing in the world and reach into its pocket for its hand and give it a bit of a squeeze because nothing that gorgeous should be kept silently. No no no. Nothing.
