If it weren't snowing (the winter of discontent) I'd have a yardsale.
Surveying the material of my own history I see the task of gleaning a kernel of meaning from the scrape of paper, a poem written nineteen years ago about a turquoise hammock; my mother’s wedding dress flung across the wardrobe mirror; the timid behavior of being good, quiet and respectful – all details that trip me when I take a step.
I've got to move (someday) if not right now.
Move the furniture around. Move some of it right through the front door and out of my life? Maybe this will get me in the mood to launch a purge of everything that no longer belongs under my roof. I seek an exorcism of all knick-knacks, wall hangings, broken dreams, balls and chains, and formerly cute mementoes that have lost their cuteness. My list includes old loves and old ideas. I think the mass of the material, bondage, and association demands surgical necessity. The objects and detritus are becoming tumors on my soul; albatross around my neck. Wow, open the flood gates of movement. The decade of suffocation is resolving.
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I don't know if I was a receptor to your thoughts this morning or that our paths are running parallel. What you have so eloquently written is what I woke up thinking about. Unfortunately once I have put myself in auto-pilot I loose it. To answer your question, I don't know what is really happening, I wish I did. For so many years I took care of everyone around me and didn't stop to figure out who this caregiver was. Now it is all I have to do and I don't know where to start. I found a picture that is my landscape. It is a place of the past. I need to find the place I am in now and where I want to be in the future. Is there hope?
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