I am perched at a table directly above the San Pablo Bay, with San Francisco (a City where I once spent half of my life) a stone’s throw away. This delicious gem of a Crab House (rightfully named “The Dead Fish”) where I find myself for the first time, is located in a Podunk town called Crockett. If that sentence doesn’t highlight some of my Southern roots, I am not sure what does. To say I am bathing in my solitude in this moment is a vast understatement. These days are few and far between for me now, and I would be lying if I said that fact did not conjure up a number of conflicting feelings for me.
This moment solidifies my notion that seafood is my love language. Well, that and carbs. As I sip spoonful’s of the fresh clam chowder sitting in front of me, and crack open my first Colleen Hoover novel (I am jumping on that ship headfirst, I will admit), I think about the life that has brought me here, on yet another solo day trip, pondering life after yet another week that broke me.
The fact that indulging in good food while deep in thought about my life is a common theme here, is not lost on me. But as any parent knows, savoring a meal with no distraction is often a luxury over a right.
I miss writing, more than I could possibly express here in one post. I miss the feeling of being free and inspired. In fact, I could not even remember my login password to compose this post. And that saddens me, because just as much as I enjoy reading from the minds of others, I have (for some time now) cherished the introspection that comes from this process of writing.
This analogy might ignite some eye rolls, but in this very moment, it is oh so relevant. The plate of fresh crab is delivered to my table and I am suddenly, ever so slightly, regretting this decision; solely because of how messy it will be. And messy it is. Getting bits of crab shell all over the table (and my shirt because my ego simply could not allow me to wear the bib provided), and that amazing garlic sauce all under my freshly manicured nails. But the reward, that perfect, buttery crab meat…..was worth it. And while I won’t even try to compare my mental clarity to crab meat (I am not totally insane, yet), I will say that this process I am in: the healing, the weekly therapy sessions, the tears, the step back (from a once vibrant social life), the digging, the unraveling and the putting back together…..it is a messy one. But survival mode is no way to live life.
So while I sit and enjoy some “dead fish”, I make the decision to ignite thriving mode, for that woman in me that created this space many moons ago.
thirty n' wordy 