The whole scene is sort of suspended in the air, floating, almost flying. And the people, which emerged quite by surprise at the very end of my session, takes our sense of scale and perception of story to a another level of other-worldliness. This kind of twist in the creative journey tickles our fixed expectations in the most delightful way, and I always welcome it.
My husband and I have been in my hometown of Philo (in the rural hillsides of northern California) for the past two months, to help my dad clear out my childhood home and farm. Unfortunately, this land that we all had dreams of stewarding for generations to come had to be sold.
C'est la vie, as they say.
Our whole family has been processing the loss of this place from near and far, and I have been here, sorting and moving deserted relics of our lives for safe-keeping, selling, giveaway, and to rubbish.
I find myself combusting into sobs at ordinary moments throughout the days, sometimes at the sight of some random detail like the rust on an old horse shoe, or walking down the steps of my old toy room. Sometimes the tears come when taking in that gorgeous view of the valley that I took for granted every morning with breakfast as a child.
But really, did I?
Did I take any of it for granted?
How much of our lives go unappreciated, unrecognized, unacknowledged? After all, we are just living out our days doing the things we love (and don't love), spending time with people we know (and don't know)... Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours into days weeks and years... I've been told that how we spend our days is how we spend our lives.
Before we know it, a whole decade glides on by, a whole generation comes of age, a place I once knew as nothing separate from myself simply changes hands. What belonged to me, to us, and what we once belonged to, is simply no longer.
Just. like. that.
This week, my husband and I have been listening to old songs by the some of the greats, Crosby Stills Nash and Young, studying their lyrics, reveling in the depth of their nuance, zealously noting how every word was crafted with such poetic precision to describe such sweet paradox: to be human.
When we are listening, I mean really listening, songs, like memories, have this special capacity to catapult us into a sort of timelessness, where everything around us dissolves into suspended equilibrium.
Even if just for a few minutes.
Each day I am here at the ranch, memories flood my heart with grief and a special kind of joy, all swirling together to form some kind of symphonic comic tragedy. Many moments here feel quite surreal, like walking in a dream, as if what I'm seeing or experiencing isn't as it seems.
I want to take everything in so deeply, more completely than ever. The belly of my soul is ravenous for all that I see, touch, hear... and remember. I digest the memories of the past, of the little girl I was, running in the woods, playing in the grass; and I am consumed by catching the memory of these very last days here, that little girl now in a woman's body, helping to make sense of it all, to gain closure, now with a little girl of my own.
I want to remember it all. I want to, but I know that I won't. I won't be able to. It's just not possible. And sometimes that pains me even more.
But sometimes,
that surreal ache suspends me,
and I begin to actually listen,
and then I float,
almost fly,
into reverie.