Inside the my little house, with Peter Thompson's Landscape on 44th Street diptych over the fireplace. c. CBerg 2011.
The horse farm property is sold, and I have moved to the little house on the hill. I left the broken rosebud cup at the other house, buried reverently in the compost pile. I wonder now if I should unearth it, collect its shards and glue them back together. It is hard for me to let go of anything, even a broken cup.
I have given away or sold most of my furniture, and a lot of my equipment, almost all of my tack, and truck loads of household items. I still have plenty to keep me, and more that I need to give away or sell.
One of my beloved daughters, Natalie, has gotten the studio apartment assignment, and will be able to start moving in a week. We have waited so long for this, but now that it is here, I am sad, and at the same time I am happy for her in her move toward independence. She is an intelligent, kind, beautiful woman who has had a few setbacks. I have done my best with her and her sisters, and it is time to let them go. "Your children are not your children," as Gibran says. Yet, it is another change.
The flood house is not finished. It was supposed to be finished this week. I knew it wouldn't be. I am changing contractors, in the hope that it will be done, rentable, and will begin to pay for itself. It has been almost a year since we started seriously working on this project. I am thankful that the state and city found the money to help with the renovation, or even that would not be done! Thank you, Jumpstart.
Outside, the sky is gray, and the snow is seriously melting. I wonder if my heart is going to melt too. It has had a coat of mud on it, then got buried in the snow. It has been a long winter, a winter of change and of upheaval. I have not even thought about love until now. My heart hurt too much.
So I begin again. I begin with my body...walking two miles, doing yoga, starting belly dancing, and eating better. It is my vessel to carry me into the future, and to keep me safe. I bought two books on aging, and on Alzheimer's so I will know how to keep myself well for as long as possible. I am lucky to have a generally healthy body, and a great immune system.
I still don't know about the cup. Should I rescue it? Maybe so. It will be nearly as good as new with a tube of super-glue. All that is broken is not lost, is not trash. Some of it is Art with Character lines.
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Comments
Of course that all begs the critical question concerning the broken rosebud cup. I have made it a practice now not to offer unsolicited advice on personal issues of that magnitude. Choice of toothpaste? Maybe. Broken rosebud cups? Never. I suspect the clearly right thing to do will come to you in a flash without anyone's assistance.
We all start over again every single day. The person who went to sleep last night is not the person who woke up this morning. Life is a process of constant change. Death is constant sameness.
We are most alive when we find ourselves in changing circumstances.
I've been reincarnated so many times, I've lost track of all the different people I've been in this one lifetime.
So, good journey, friend. Perhaps we will meet along the way.
Go. Go get that cup.
It needs you.
Your journey is encouraging. Thanks for the telling.
♥
(btw, I see a cup on the table)
`R
brilliant
R, of course
~r
I can fall asleep
if someone keep ups
the talking to me.
`
I know a Place where if you ever visited there
you would actually believe you were stepping
back into another past century. Winter's best.
Your powerful expression evoked a memory.
It was my remembrance of breaking my a cup.
I was sipping honey wine. Moon gazing is fun.
The cup is old with Nova Scotia Royal symbols.
I forgot. Sigh. I left a teacup on my pickup hood.
It was a full moon with dark skies and brightness.
It's more joy to watch sky than go on ocean cruise.
The Moon kept getting blotted out from darkness.
Wouldn't you know it? You guessed it. Teacup broke.
This is a true story. When sixty comes we muse much.
The memories flood back, and the looking deep is heavy.
I read these reflection at sixty are supposed to be weighty.
These sure read smooth, real, genuine, and in painful touch.
I picked up the teacup parts. I still saved them. Life's mystery.
My Sisters wanted silverware, and what was viewed valuable.
`
This reall was/is a painful memory. Life still goes on though.
`
One other time - I broke a crystal wine glass with a thin handle.
The base was flat and round. The thin glass was six inches high.
The chalice round crystal glass cup was a family heirloom. Sigh.
The flower designs were so delicate. What beautiful fine etches.
I really enjoyed this post.
I save all broken pieces.
I still recall facial smiles.
There is much we can tell.
You are an inspiration and I echo Gary-forget the cup because it will make room for a new one.
Nabina
I found this part so interesting b/c I will probably be much the same way some day...trying to be balanced. Thanks for such a personal account.
and this:
"I wonder if my heart is going to melt too. It has had a coat of mud on it, then got buried in the snow. "
oh! just gorgeous, even in pain