Going to Dell'Arte for graduate school was an experience that, it turns out, I needed a long time to process. I hate to use words like process. I really do. But the processing sort of happened, unbidden, while I was busy being angsty and depressed about not having done enough work during my first year in Portland. There it was, running in the background, chugging diligently away, draining my battery life and occasionally, like a salty old cat, leaving chewed-up revelations at my doorstep, which I met with disgust and feeble gratitude.
This metaphor got away from me.
What I mean to say is that I'm learning that my high-octane dismissiveness of anything resembling introspection or feelings hasn't done me any favors in my 20's, and I'm trying to come to terms with this new thing in my life. Processing: the salty old cat that arrived, uninvited, on my porch. I've grown used to the cat. Even look forward to seeing it come sniffing around when I leave out a dish of scraps. Maybe someday it will let me scratch its ears.