Everything lately has been reminding me of the past. Today, on a McDonalds bag, no less, there was a reference to the River of No Return. Idaho. Middle Fork of the Salmon River. Chris Porter. He was so charming and I fell in love with the strum of his guitar and the smooth harmony of his voice. It was his eyes that scared me the most…the way they looked right through me, into my soul, or my heart, or that place inside where no one is allowed. A doctor that lived like a Spartan. Happy with just a guitar and the sweet sounds and smells of the river, he was unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I refrained from flirting as he was a friend of my sister and I was unwilling to confront all the uncomfortable ness that a fling would ensure. And I was married.
But for 7 glorious days I hovered around him like a moth on the front porch light. Just to sit next to him and breathe. We watched the Aurora Borealis and the eagle in flight. We pounded the rapids and pounded the beers and sang songs until we were too hoarse and too tired to remember the words. And is it my imagination, or was the sky bluer back then? I would have stayed forever on the River of No Return. I would have stayed forever in my sleeping bag next to the fire. I would have stayed forever in his eyes. He was magnetic and powerful and sexy in his own way. And the pictures I have to remind me of that week in no way do him justice. The pictures couldn’t possibly capture the magnitude of the mountains, the crashing of the waves, the weight of the sunlight, the intensity of the stars, the roar of the silence or the passion in the man.
And though I would love nothing more than to close my eyes and re-live the memories of what was potentially the best week of my adult life, there are conferences to attend and dinner to cook and little babies to be tucked into bed, and I’ve just no time to wish away today in remembrance of an easier time. But if I had the time, I’d spend it trying to evoke the joy and passion I felt those few short days. The contentment I felt, the confidence, the love, the elation. I’d spend it recalling how I was no surer that the world was good and beautiful then I was when I stood in the middle of the river and inhaled the splendor of the untouched landscape surrounding me. And though I love my home and all of my possessions, and I often wish for more and better, I would give it up in a second to live in Stanley and be surrounded forever by the majestic perfection that is Idaho.

During the day, I struggle under the weight of my eyelids, but when darkness falls I find myself terrified to close my eyes. I’ve become painfully aware of the passing of time, and find myself clinging in desperation to each moment as it slips through my fingers. Willing myself to remember. Willing myself to appreciate. Willing myself to keep it together. But the time passes and each day blurs into the next and at the end of the week I’m left with a haze of unremarkable moments when I know in my heart that there was so much more there. So much more I’m overlooking, or forgetting, or missing. And the time, it just keeps passing. Weighed and measured by lost chances, missed opportunities, action not taken, words that cannot be taken back, and those that were never said. And the thought of all I’m missing, all I’ve missed and all I’ll never know, tugs at my mind and threatens to pull me under.

I can’t quite explain it. Unfulfilled. Unmotivated. Unsure. Incapable. Unhappy.

I have this feeling inside that I can’t put my finger on. I haven’t been writing only because I haven’t been much to be around. I have this sort of empty sensation deep in my pit that I just can’t seem to shake. Nothing terrible has recently transpired. Nothing earth-shattering or mind numbing that I can blame this recent case of melancholy that has swallowed up my world and made me quite unbearable to be around. Maybe hollow hits it. Vacuous. Void. Vacant.

I don’t mean to sound pompous or vain, but this life is not the life I thought I’d have. And maybe this is part of it. Not that I don’t have an enormous amount of blessings in my life, and I don’t intend to sound ungrateful for the gifts I’ve been given. I am blessed. I am aware that I’m blessed. But there’s this feeling of unease I have. A feeling of not living up to my expectations. A feeling that I should have been more. Better. Important. Worthy. And of these, I feel none. I feel as though here, I’ve failed. I feel mediocre at best. Pedestrian. So I laugh out loud, if only to keep from crying, and I pretend that I’m here, if only to keep from being found, and I hope that people don’t notice that I haven’t been heard from in months.