This past Friday, I attended a gathering of my high school friends in NYC. They aren’t just “friends” in the literal sense. Our relationships go way deeper than that. It’s to a point of undescription.(yeah I made that up). With them it’s not about doing things together..it’s all about being in the same space and basking in an energy that recharges the soul.
As the night progressed, the year books came out. Typically, this is the stage where we each share tidbits about our classmates, giving updates on their last known whereabouts and rehashing embarrassing moments…then someone had brought a yearbook of the class that graduated a year ahead of us. I will preface this story with the fact that I talked to a lot of my upperclassmen from practically day one, so there was a lot of history there. I was not prepared for how much. Each turn of the page was as if vast forgotten swaths of my consciousness were being revealed to me. How could this be? How could I have forgotten so many that were so dear, so profound, so much a part of who I am? For a moment I felt displaced..out of body, then profoundly sad. How did I let this happen? I felt like I was reliving transplanted memories of someone else, someone that used to exist across a great empty chasm of time. A pause and then a realization that this very moment, that very feeling, was why it was necessary to be there, to take it all in, hold that moment in my heart and never let go.