The Entrance Way

Entrances & Exits

Mom, there is aspect to these letters I can no longer ignore. A certain, em, almost freedom somehow. Writing to you in this manner has given me focus, and an acknowledgement of my beliefs, and of course I know you know a lot of this already. I’m not daft, but I know you watch out for us. I know when you’re around. I’ve always bared my soul to you, and I will always seek your advice. Lex and I have often spoke of how we feel your presence amongst all our triumphs’, tragedies and trials.

Soooo… broke down the other day and decided to write to Tim. Rather scathing letter I suppose, tinged with truth and love. Tis a complicated grief.

I can’t deny that. Things he did I can’t ignore, and so many stories of our life together I have been reluctant to tell. Some I suppose due to my inaction, but a reality none the less, and some day I will spill the beans; ashamed or not. You know me Mom, never one to hold back, least not to you. Maybe some ONLY I could tell you.

As you once said to Lexi & I…I may not LIKE what you have done, but know that I will love you anyhow, regardless. Truth to you was paramount, you could forgive a misdeed, but not a lie.

Which of course is what made life with Tim such a goddamn treat. Almost felt like I was constantly dodging bullets with him, as we played this cat and mouse game with his Family.

Especially his Dad. Never quite figured out what the contents of the bullshit he had fed his Father were. OR, exactly WHY we were hiding in the woods behind the cottage from his Dad so often. After awhile the game I played with myself was ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. Well, until all hell broke loose and I found out in jaw-dropping splendour just how clever a liar he was. So who knows what he’d told his Dad.

Can’t imagine what his family must think of me.

At his funeral was the first time our two worlds collided, and let me tell you it was very strange indeed to see Dad and Tim’s Dad together. Dad is so beautiful. You know he had every right to think Tim a dick-wad, Tim having used his credit card without permission (jotted the number down and used it to buy gas with at this unsavoury place in town).

Yet, he treated Tim’s Dad with such a tremendous amount of respect and grief. I don’t know if you could say he exactly, completely, forgave Tim, but one must not think ill of the dead I suppose was his thinking. Dad is such a good and honest man, and I know he saw that Tim’s Dad was a good man.

But with Dad I know underlying it was the fact he could see Tim’s Dad’s pain, and as a father he couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose a child. Even a 51 year old one. And believe me, in a lot of ways Tim never really did mature past 9 or 10.

So I have decided I’ll maybe occasionally write to Tim as well. I still have things to say to him. Things that got stuck in my throat when he was dying. Things I just couldn’t say to him.

He could be difficult to talk with Mom, as he hated when I talked about you guys; it pissed him off. Except for when I spoke of you, as he fucken knew better then to say one goddamn word – but he could be very controlling.

I have to work my way out of those feelings of grief tinged with shame, because I like a certain element of determination in a man. I like a dominate character, and a strong sense of self. But it’s a fine line, and it can be difficult to discern the good ones, from the controlling bastard ones; especially when your a naïve introvert.

Underneath the layers of this blog you know Mom, has always been this dialogue between you and I though, at the core. Maybe not acknowledged, or even visible to others, but there within the fabric of the tales none the less.

I feel blessed at the tales I was raised on, all those family legends that defined my sense of self growing up. But you know Mom, after going back farther in our family story, I am truly stunned. Civil War soldiers, builders of the first English railway’s, Weavers, and Official Town Clerks, and secret singers I have still to rediscover. Oh, and one murdered Father of a bastard child, and the stupid lad had only been in the country maybe five years.

However Mom, no native lassies so far. That legend I believe may have another tale to tell of the South.

But this part is all new for me. I have all these stories inside, and for the longest time have had no vehicle for which to move them from my mind to a page. So perhaps a post instead, eh?

Well, if I’ve learned anything, is that delivery is often what defines the soul of a tale.

irish-smilesYup, more talking to the dead. It’s all good though Mom. I’ve learned a trick or three over the years, and I know how to keep the bad stuff at bay now.

Step One is to keep a warm and welcoming entranceway.

Step two keep the air clean. So I smudge with a little stick of sage once in a while, wandering around the abode talking to the spirits of white light and goodness. Creating both a sense of positivity, and ridding the place of any negativity I may have dragged in the door with me.

And every morning before work, I light a stick of Nag Champa or Frankincense & Myrrh incense…so that upon my arrival home I am always met with a lovely scent. Keeps the bad things away, I say, with sweet smells and smiles.


Comments or Otherwise

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.