I was in a place sometime ago where I became actively aware of the things falling apart around me. A favorite jacket, a pair of grey boots, relationships, my childhood home, and so on. This process of noticing the wearing and tearing didn’t start there. At the time, I was engaging in a choreographic project in which the wearing and tearing took place on myself. On my physical and mental selves in that I was forcing myself to remember things I so badly wanted to forget. I forced myself to dive into emotions that I never knew I could feel. It was a continual process of wearing myself to the point of exhaustion, in the hopes of what?

I was going through it, you could say.

This was well over a year ago. I am in a much different place. I am making much different decisions and thinking about much different things. But in the cyclical nature of this life we’re all living, here we are again.

At a workshop earlier today, as I sat among a carefully curated collection of worn and torn things, I was asked to think about what it means to repair. Both literally and figuratively, how do I continually engage in a process of reparation, in a process of constant healing?

How much of my healing is reliant upon engaging with the moments I would love to forget?

How much of our healing is reliant on us remembering who we were in the first place?

How much of our healing is reliant on the things we thought were damaged beyond repair?


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