Forgetting. Forgetter. What do you do if you’re the master of forgetting? I thought it was just certain things about which I am forgetful. But apparently not. There’s another expression – selective memory. You remember things in the way that you want to remember them.

I’d like to live my life in less of a fog. I’d like to wake up in the morning with a clear sense of what happened to me the night before. And I’d like to have continuity from the night to the subsequent morning. I used to have that. I feel it was stripped away from me. I think I am fairly thin skinned. Which could be a good quality when it comes to making sincere, expressive music on a cello. But a not so great quality when navigating life’s tribulations, when trying to make sense of life’s bizarre complications.

I pray for my HP to help me tonight. I’ve strived for so long to handle things myself, as perhaps I’ve been taught by example in my family of origin. Of course I admire them if they can indeed accomplish that. That is exactly why I have attempted it. It’s fantastic if managed. But is it not also admirable to admit that I am not indestructible, impenetrable? To admit what is more representative of reality? That I need? That I have needs. That I need others.

Sitting there in that meeting tonight just felt good. It felt good and right to lean into the fellowship there. To allow myself to feel community. And by extension, to feel my god. A power greater than myself.

Isn’t god a little bit more comforting than a functioning modem? I should seriously consider that choice. I should consider a lot of choices. I should not just forget. I should reconsider. I should remember. I should recall. I should reconnect. I love my HP. With all my mind, soul, heart, and body. Just as a good jew should. I don’t ask for much. Just that my HP can hold my hand. That (s)he can guide me from tonight to tomorrow morning uninterrupted, unfettered. That (s)he can be there for my memory, my memories.