Home revisited #1

The title says it all, I am revisiting my home pieces which can be found somewhere on this site, good luck to you if you go looking, I can’t find them at all.  That is such a perfect metaphor.  I know they are here, somewhere.  They were heartfelt and important at the time of writing but what is much more important to me now is the now.  This now.  Me. At the table, writing as I Iisten to the transmission of Kate Bush’s Ninth Wave.  I am bathing in the sounds.  I am squinting at the screen.  I am wondering if my hair, newly washed today, will carry the scent of the roast chicken I cooked this evening in the combi-oven I bought for £20 to enable us to cook.  I am living in a small market town in Gloucestershire. A different one to that which I have lived in for the last 18 years. Not even that far away but lifetimes between. Pause there to think. Yes, lifetimes between.  Nineteen miles and a whole lifetime between there and here.

I think back to my day. I notice that I inhabited my day. I, eye, inhabited this day as if it was my own because in truth it was that but the knowing of that truth is somehow too overwhelming to be in my consciousness as I move through it. I recognise that I have just never done this before.  Strange that.  Fifty Eight years.  Two husbands. Four children down and days , weeks, months, years spent not inhabiting the days that filled them. Always someone else’s agenda because I was trained to get my validation, my sense of worthiness, externally.  Now if you haven’t experienced this you won’t know or understand how that could happen but it is akin to that sense of your happiness as a person being linked to the happiness of your most miserable child if you are a parent.  If you are not and here I stumble, I really stumble because other people, parents, husbands, children have been in my life all my life.  The only person who wasn’t was me. I stop there. Fucking hell.  Really?  I check back quickly running through big decisions and nod my head.  Fucking hell.  Yes.

Fucking hell.

Yes.

And it seems that Kate understands that.  If she doesn’t as a person her music does, I know it, I can feel it, my body and psyche know it and respond, resonate with it. Because certain chords, certain combinations of notes tell me that I am not alone.  That this experience is not just mine. That it is archetypal (and I will write more another day about that particular push and pull dynamic with mothers and their daughters, but not today, no not today, because on this day I am the victor); and therefore not personal.  I am just what that particular energy travels through at this point in time on this planet.

I am as opaque as the mist.  I have no inherent self here and that is a liberation.  I can go with whatever particular whim and fancy comes to me because it is all of equal value. There is no judgement. No one to check in with to see if it is OK, God that is strange, and  I know that statement will seem so strange to those who haven’t experienced that particular dynamic, but no, no one to tell me that I am OK, that my choices are OK, that I won’t suffer punishment or worse be ostracised or left alone.

It takes some getting used to, but increasingly becomes easier because I have experienced the loss of all that I feared losing and survived.  It has all gone. Home, Business, Marriage, Family Life and Good Name and Sense of Self Worth.  Capitalised because that shit is fucking huge and yet like Kate Bush’s woman adrift I have marshalled my resources and fucking survived.

But now. Now is the time not to survive but to thrive.

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