Last Night...

Someone sat at a table across from me and asked why I was peeling the labels off of my beer bottles. I was distracted by the task at hand, running my fingernail under the edge of the damp paper until I felt it give and curl back onto itself.
"Because," I said, hardly glancing up, "I put them in my journals."
"Ah...when do you write in it? The morning?"
"Almost every morning, yes." The label folded in half and I tugged a bit harder until it slipped off of the bottle, cold and soaked and I put it immediately in the side pocket of my bag along with the receipts and torn magazine pages, ticket stubs and random wrappers and ephemera I find myself tacking down along the edges of my journal pages before I cover them with spidery black ink script.
"Do you write about the day before and what happened?" he asked and I finally sat back and looked at him, uncertain of why a stranger was so interested in my writing habits. His face was open, without a trace of self-consciousness about asking me questions. I found myself suddenly smiling at him, because he was doing my routine.
When I meet someone, I try to get them talking about who *they* are. I gather up stories and harvest them in my writing, giving a new character that girl's tendency to tell too much too soon about her love life or that guy's intense philosophy on the proper way to fold a newspaper. Random bits & pieces that surface in my work...a kaleidoscope of idiosyncrasies to jumble together and create with.
However, this story-collecting of mine is also a form of social defense. Most people are happy to oblige and give me their words readily...we are all so hungry to be *heard* and understood by someone else and I always feel lucky to be "gifted" with others' memories and discussions. But lately, I have noticed how I get people talking about themselves so that I don't have to talk about ME. I am reluctant to divulge anything but the basics of who I am...my children, my writing background, my teaching. No problem, but once it gets any further along into the details of my memories, my experiences, my relationships, my family and the changes I'm going through, I feel a slight razor-edge of panic creep in and find myself quickly steering the discussion back to THEM.
When I do open up and say something, I am immediately wondering how it came across...did that sound too odd, too needy, too intense, too silly, too bitchy, too out there? There's a conflict between the need I have to express, to just say what I want to say and if you like it and get it, then we can keep talking and if you don't want to hear it or don't understand it, then that is perfect, but I'm not going to take it back...cut with the need I have for approval and some vague form of recognition. Usually, it is a non-issue, because I navigate the conversation towards the heart of the others' story and they tell me.
Occasionally, I meet someone, however, who won't give their words as readily and I find myself off of the careful script of interactions I'm used to. I feel lost and uncertain of whether to speak or hold my silence...then sometimes too, I meet someone who asks me the questions first and forces me to tip my hand and give something of myself.
Last night, all of this flashed through my head as I looked at the man across the table and his casual creased smile. Laugh lines etched around his eyes and he leaned patiently back into his chair like he'd wait all evening to hear my answers.
"I don't really have rules on what I write in the journals," I replied. "Usually it starts with the day or the night before and what I'm thinking about, but it can just as easily slip into something 20 years old or I can write about a lipstick-smeared cigarette butt in the gutter for pages and pages. I don't really know."
"Interesting." He said, shifting himself forward and resting onto his elbows on the tabletop, "Now tell me, have you ever thought about writing about your future in your journals instead of about your past?"
"Hmmm..." I suddenly became intent on getting the back label off of the bottle, avoiding the question and his intense gaze.
"No really," he laughed, "Have you ever thought about writing what you want to have happen and who you want to meet or know and how you want your day to be instead of looking at things backwards in time and focusing on the past?"
"I don't know." I answered, honestly perplexed at this point. Others at the table were listening to the exchange and I felt my skepticism out there on display in the room full of discussion of spirituality and faith and labyrinths and fairies and crystals and energy.
"Oh," he said, "Let me guess, you don't believe in any of this stuff. Right?"
Oh shit, I thought, but what I said was, "I'm not sure of much these days..."
"Well, try it...try writing about what's coming for you now and then instead of just about what happened the day before. It will change your life."
What he didn't know about me because, as usual, I didn't offer it up for conversation was that I am a fairly dreamy person cut with some superstitious/moody Irish/Italian DNA. I don't know if I believe anything "New Agey" or don't...I don't discount anyone's experiences, but I also try to practice formal Buddhist zazen for an hour a day and it is hard-core, with nary an angel or totem animal to be found for me. It takes me on hellish trips through past experiences at times: things I wish I'd done differently or better, things that hurt, people who broke pieces of me. At times, I literally feel like I'm crawling out of my skin with the ache of it...almost chanting: why do I do this to myself? instead of some delicious mantra. Other times, I savor a perfect moment, something that made me laugh, a kiss that stole my breath, remembering the peony I watched for a full half hour dripping rain at my friend's house. I make my plans and worry about my future, doing all of the things one isn't supposed to in meditation. THEN, the bottom falls out whether it has been blissful planning or remembering ache, I finally find silence. The present returns...I feel my breath, my pulse, my bones touching the Earth and everything else goes away.
All I said to the man last night was, "Maybe I will try it and see what happens."
And I'm not really lying...maybe I will try it. I will write about a future for myself full of more wild & whirling words, more publications, of getting my novel out there on shelves and how grateful I am for it. I will write about teaching my amazing students about writing and books and creativity and technical mechanics and enjoy that sense of "community" that evolves in my classes. I will write out a future full of joy and laughter for my babies and then, if I'm *really* feeling bold, I'll even ink out a whole future of healing my broken heart and loving deeply and openly without holding back...about finding home again.
But, for today...I'll glue my labels in place and let the ink pour across the page about what has been happening to me lately and how I'm trying to find my way through this new terrain without any map. I'll pick up the cluster of dried flower petals I've been saving and stick them in between the bookstore receipt and the matchbook cover and write all about last night...