Because Change Is The Only Constant

Struggled with this post, how to start, if to start, what to say, what not to say. As with all first steps, all beginnings, journeys, all of that, the first step is hard, takes a bit of facing fears, embracing truths, acknowledging desires, dreams, looking forward. This will be one of a series, but that first word I have really struggled with.

How? DO I? Can I? Should I?

Mom and I 1972
Mom and I 1972 at the Lake

Mom always told me that everything of who I am, what I thought, felt, it was usually written on my face. Basically, I have never been that good a fabricating, never lied naturally or well, and as soon as my feet would hit the threshold of my home, there she would be in the kitchen, and I would pour forth my thoughts, fears, my truths.

My childhood could without exaggeration nor rose-tinted focus be called “idyllic”. My mom and grandmother made sure of it, worked at it, made sacrifices for it to be so for both my sister and I. Dad worked hard to put food on our table, the roof over our heads, with enough left over for vacations. Whilst dad upheld my tactile world, mom and grandma orchestrated everything else.

See, my family is matriarchal, and that power of THE elder female was something dad understood himself, as his own childhood had been governed by a powerful woman.

My family has lived by the banks of the Thames River for a couple centuries. Our own homestead we have had in the family for over a century, and Grandma sold the orchard property next door to mom and dad in the late 70s, and so they built us a little yellow brick house right beside hers.

Grandma was mom’s mom, and her bedroom growing up became my bedroom after Grandma died (in the mid-80s), which after I moved out at 19 became my sisters.

Grandma & Lexi - 1970s -
Late 1970’s, Grandma & Lexi

Today that room, that house, has seen another generation of our family walk the floors, as it has for well over 100 years.

That’s what I mean by idyllic. Wholesome, with my ancestors voices echoing from the walls, a sense of safety and security, a line of people going back in time, and to which we were given a sense of pride in our ancestors, a strong sense of that blood, sweat and tears.

I knew her love, my mom’s, I knew she loved us unconditionally warts and all, and we her.

Mom died in 2001, and one thing my sister and I agreed on early was that we would not whitewash her into this fantasy mom. We would share her spirit, her words, her wisdom. We would share her, all of her, acknowledge her mistakes, her real and honest to goodness essence, her pain, her struggles.

She was a mom figure to a lot of my sisters friends, as well my friends. Not because she was perfect, but because she was compassionate, forgiving, and she listened. You know? No one is left behind, no one is so damaged or broken that they don’t deserve love. She held space in her heart for many. And so, her death, the loss of her, it hurt very deeply. The loss of those rare souls who reach out and have so much love for many, often sacrifice their own happiness for that.

That loss is something many can not fill, and would never try.

So, I’m stalling.

Things are happening in my world, change is no longer a distant horizon I can see, but is right here and now, and I have little choice but to embrace it, and see it for what it is – an opportunity.

Doors opened, a fresh breeze, though at times bitter, has the power to blow away some cobwebs, dust the domicile, clean out the crap that has weighed me down for years, and it is time for that change.

I don’t know how… I didn’t know how I was going to write about it all, in what context, what voice, what way to share, or even if I should share – or if I could.

With all the words I’ve written in the past, writing about the past, or about my now, and whatever plans I had for future posts, or themes, I feel now that to not share this journey I’m about to undertake would be dishonest to what this blog was always meant to be – a place for MY truths, and loses, MY thoughts, my sorrows and joys, a place where I could be myself, openly.

Well, and to get it all the heck outa my head, so I could get on with it, and not let it weigh me down.

tem·​e·​nos | 
\ ˈteməˌnäs \ plural temene\ -​ˌnē \

TYPEnoun;  a sacred circle where one can be themselves without fear, a piece of land cut off and assigned as an official domain, especially to kings and chiefs, or a piece of land marked off from common uses and dedicated to a god, a sanctuary, holy grove or holy precinct.

The Temenos Journal

There was always this thread of therapy, of having that place where you could go to rant, to cry, to ask why, to speak ones mind, and to hell in a handbasket at the consequences, that is what this blog was meant to be. This place for my own words, the images, for this is my sanctuary… and I get to say whatever I want to say, or need to say.

Maybe tomorrow, or the next, but I intend to share this journey.

So, stay tuned, and all will be revealed, warts and all.

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