it's my (leaving) party, i'll cry, but i don't want to

joyce is a nun, art therapist, and one of my former practicum supervisors who will be leaving the house she has lived in for 30 years. the church has consistently provided her with a place to live, but now they are downsizing from a beautiful 3 storey hard wood floor, high ceiling home in the highlands, to a newly built shoe box of a building in suburbia. she will be moving in the autumn. she told me that she has been saying small goodbyes every day, in (and to) different parts of the building, which has housed guests from all over the world and holds memories of these visitors in every room.

i cannot comprehend living in the same house for 30 years, however i can empathize with leaving somewhere i have enjoyed being that holds a lot of good times for me. when "grease monkey" left louisville and moved to north carolina, she explained that her process of saying goodbye was like ripping off a band aid (anglo translation: "plaster") very slowly. my "truth" is that i came back to louisville to do the same. i had left mine on, hoping that the elements would wash it off, or someone else would give it a tug for me. unfortunately the scab cant heal when it's half covered with a soggy, germy plaster. i never said my series of goodbyes (one quick one before leaving in a dust cloud on to the distraction of the next adventure does not qualify); i didn't want to let go.

i want to let go; it is time to let go, to say goodbye, to let a scar begin to develop. like joyce, i have until the autumn to "work my process", to relish my friends, my memories and things unique to louisville (derby, summer concerts on a sunday at willow park, the art fairs, dodging potholes driving down eastern parkway). i have people and places to look forward to being "present" with. in order to do this i have to feel what ive tried to avoid for thirty (one) years; i have to feel sad.