Since returning from Calcutta 40 days ago, I’ve spent hours upon hours writing. I’ve barely slept and I have the dark circles and serial yawning syndrome to prove it. My evening routine begins with cozy time with my little one; I’ll read more books than we initially agreed upon and allow even more sips of water before finally kissing her good night. After time with my husband, I sneak downstairs to write while he quickly fades. Most often, I’ve begun the process of writing in my head much earlier in the day and I cannot wait to finally sit at my desk and unload. There are nights in which the words flow freely; pouring out so that my fingers barely keep up with the speed of my thoughts. Then there are nights I am overwhelmed with frustration at my inability to piece my thoughts together with any cohesion whatsoever. Every night, however, I attempt to write about my time in Calcutta and how it has affected me and every night I fail miserably. I cannot. I, sincerely, want to but I find myself too afraid to release the words. I’m so afraid. My first return to Calcutta affected me profoundly and I’m currently fending off the emotional flood I know will follow the opening of those gates. And while I’m certain writing about Calcutta will be the first step in freeing myself from the burden of its impact, it will take time; time I’m allowing myself. I’m close; even now I can feel it rising up in my throat, lingering at the tips of my fingers ready for release but not today. Today, I cannot and that’s okay. I’ll get there…
I’ve been thinking about you, Calcutta. Dreaming of you. Missing you; no aching for you. Surely, your chapters are already written in my head and, as it turns out, releasing them will be the challenge. Upon release the reality of your impact will become even more vivid and all encompassing. I’m hesitant but committed to writing about how drastically I’m changed because of you. I wonder if it will happen within the next forty days…
written. 