It is a particularly interesting time for me to invite my readers to a Part II. But here I am, at 10:30 pm in my house, on my own. Did I mention I was on my own??? It is quiet when I choose it to be, and loud to the sound of my soundtrack, if I want. And yes, the soundtrack is often playing in my head, anyway. The painter just left after having dinner with me. John the painter slash handyman looks like a college professor, with a proper English accent. Lord knows his story and why he travels from west Sussex to my house… a long way, to paint my walls. But he does and he has done a twelve hour day and celebrated his work over a bowl of pasta with me…why not.
Husband has called today concerned. He has heard from reliable sources, ie his best mate, that I am crying and not doing well. I am, fine…I really am. It’s a coming together of all I believe in; perspective – it;s almost everything, mixed with a true sense of being with oneself, mixed with perspective again. How you look at something depends on the lense you’re wearing. And if it’s not making you happy, change the friggin’ lense!
I love my house. I love the fact that I find meaning in a box of crayons left by a bedside table. And I love the ability to cry about it. I don’t believe in holding it in…much like birth, you have to allow yourself the dignity and honor of knowing that yes, you are feeling something huge, in order to let it go. So many times we suck it up and store it away in order to present a better self. Those emotions that we feel are indulgent and full of insecurity. But the truth is, I don’t know how to be in that space before I’m in this one.
The painter painted; the electrician gave me the thumbs up and presented a certificate for our tenant; our house is getting ready. And…crap…so am I. Not thrilled, but at least happy to paint the walls covered in God knows what dirt and get the all clear that our electrics were actually done to inspection standards. Tomorrow morning, 8 am when jet-lag dreams will be invading my soul, the movers will come. Five big, burly men will arrive with boxes and Saran wrap and wrap up my home in London…figuratively speaking…for a while.
I’m sure I will greet them with half an eye, like a pirate, for lack of sleep, but yes, ok, I will open the door. I will treat this exercise of clearing out my house as metamorphic and will hurl myself to the other side of all of my commentary with force, and some good Chablis. I await tomorrow’s adventure with a soulful awareness that my family is not tied to these walls, to these drawers, to these crayon boxes that seem to have crazy meaning right now; but to each other, and the exchange between.
Finding meaning in a box of crayons. Now that is either sad, or ‘Awareness’ in its spotlight.