How To Escape Your Loving Mother

Just realised this morning that, truth be told, I probably talk to you more now than I did as an adult while you were living.

Always your tea towel in the wind, you clung to me so tightly when I was young. I suppose because you knew as soon as you let go, once and for all, I’d be gone. And god knows where bouts I’d land. I’m sure that scared the hell out of you.

I mean, I was nineteen Mom. NINETEEN. I was plenty old enough. Kids every year go off to college and university, living far away from home. But that wasn’t my future, but damned if I would be held back from my ownindependence day.

I knew you wanted to let go, I know you meant to let go, but you had draughted this path, and you figured out the best way through the woods. And thank you. Seriously. Thank you.

But did you ever wonder if I had my own dreams? Awful as I always felt even thinking those thoughts; those selfish words just wouldn’t leave me alone. Because even I didn’t know.

Not that I could tell you exactly what it was I wanted to be…but I never really stopped, atleast never long enough to give the idea of something else a fair shake. I don’t remember caring one way or the other. I just never felt my artwork was that good. I never saw myself as a graphic artist, as I completely lacked that kind of patience and talent, or inclination. I didn’t want to do things all neat and tidy. It felt unnatural. I wasn’t neat and tidy. I was messy, a little wild. I didn’t like to have to always colour inside the lines, not all the time.

Yeah, well.

So Crossroads Man gave me a dingle last eve, out of the blue. Just finished finally watching the Sex In The City movie, and was dangerously close to choosing another mind numbing romance flick when he called.

So he invited me over for a beer, or three. I choose to have two.

We talked, and of course in the background on the radio was CBC. His place is always a cacophony of sights and sound, and ideas, with the occasional rant, delivered not by the CBC host. He’s going, and the voice of the CBC drones on behind, and it can sometimes be overwhelming.

No idea what YOU would think of him; part hoarder, part madman by the water, craftsmen, cave dweller… I shan’t go on.

I think sometimes he just invites me over so he can unload all the thoughts that get tangled up in his head, with salacious overtures for spice. He makes me dizzy, and I often find I can’t handle him of late.

Like last night.

So I’ve been dashing off, and apparently too soon, and without him. I don’t mean to, but I think that my escaping him intrigues him even more.

Just before I left for his place, it was not quite dark yet, I looked out the door to check the weather and across the step ran a chipmunk. I kid you not. Little thing just ….whoosh…ran across my stoop. He must have ensconced himself somewhere nearby this last winter. The wee critter came back.

No clue what THAT means.

Yet something in the air right at that point reminded me of Tim.

We had a little guy who would come up and visit at the Lake. He/she had originally arrived that summer, just before I met him. I guess Tim would share his morning toast. It would smell it toasting away, and would run up and wait for him to pass him out a piece.

So when I saw that the one from last fall had returned, I stopped. Just stood there lost in thought .

So maybe that’s why I left.

I wasn’t thinking of the chipmunk when I left. Nor of Tim.

I was thinking about how tired I was…up since 2:30 AM. I had worked my first 5AM that morn, napped, washed the dishes, and meandered about.

I suppose I was DREAMING of my bed. ALONE. Well, alone but for the shaggy blond dog.

SO I escaped. Watched part of another movie on Netflix, about some English painter in this artist colony in Cornwall at the turn of the century. Quite dull. Just what I had been in the mood for, and just the right ingredients for what I required. I think I’ll try for the last half this evening. It was called Summer In February of all things.

Lovely landscapes. Quite enchanting from a visual perspective. The story was a bit of a meander. But, very much in keeping with the proclivities of an artist.

Bit inspiring, to be honest. Creativity was on the menu last night I guess. I had mentioned to that Crossroads Man how difficult it is to once and for all just finally do what it is your heart desires… once you figured out what the hell that was. How delicious it feels to just BE.

But escaping YOU was never my intention you know. Rather, it was because I knew that regardless of what I became, or who I was, that you would love me just the same.

And thank you for that precious gift.

I’m not done with Crossroads Man. I might never be. Nice to know he’s just around the corner. He calls me, or I call him. Sometimes he wants company, sometime I do, sometimes not. We care about one another.

He understands my solitude, half gypsy hermit that he is.

AND his roof, HALLELULEH, finally fixed. And soon will apparently all the mouldy walls be repaired/replaced.

Thinking probably that’s another thing that I can no longer tolerate. I had begun to feel the walls closing in sometimes when I was there. And it always had this musty, mouldy odour. It made me a bit noxious.

I think the place was driving him mad.

Another reason I left is that he had promised his friend he’d go over and help her move her snow tires out of her car. She phoned just when I was debating on whether I should stay or I should go. I felt that it was wrong for him to not help her, and my leaving left him open to call her back. So he did.

Good boy.

I’m of two minds concerning him you know Mom, so who knows what the future will bring. I’m just holding close to the things that tend to make me happy. Walking more, talking more, writing more. That’s it and that’s all.

I suppose I will always be that tea towel in the wind. But what I’ve learned is that you can never escape the love of your Mother, overwhelming though it may be. No such thing as loving something, or someone, too much.

Love,
PaulaB

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