Some moments from my past are bright and clear and stay in sharp focus in my memory with all of their sensory aspects intact.  These memories are like markers between distinct phases of my life.  For example,  I remember the exact moment I let go of my marriage.   The anxiety that had built inside of me was like a bird of prey that had been sitting in my chest for a long time waiting to eventually devour my heart.  It flew away that night, leaving behind an unfamiliar, empty, careless sensation in its place. A place where I could free fall, or a place where I could find the room to save myself. I didn’t care any more about my marriage. How bizarre.  I was fascinated by my inability to feel concern about the one thing that had long been so important.  I was a spectator to myself moving through this new terrain in ways I would later come to see as unsustainable or sometimes hurtful, but perhaps ultimately necessary as part of my progress towards a more authentic, intentional way of living.

I remember the moment like this.   It was an autumn evening, chilly and clear.  I had exited the freeway in North Seattle, and before returning home to my husband and sleeping children, I pulled my VW van over on a dark side street and killed the engine.  I sat in my van alone with the glow of the city around me.  I remember the music playing on my car stereo.  The song was “Tommib” by Squarepusher from the “Lost in Translation” soundtrack.  I remember the feeling of the tight leather boots I was wearing, the feeling of my hot clothes, my hands on the steering wheel, the appearance of the sky with the music beautifully drowning out everything else for just a moment.   I remember the exhilarating feeling of falling in love with something else which I wasn’t quite sure of yet.