This morning as I pack up to leave, there is a thought that lingers at the edge of my consciousness, hovering, and teasing. I grasp for it, but it evades me, like a feather I once chased in the wind, blowing just a little further away every time I reached out for it. Even though I can’t quite grasp this thought, I’m aware that it comes from within. Perhaps it’s a dream I don’t remember, or a premonition, or a memory hidden deep in my heart. Whatever it is, it torments me. No amount of trying secures it for me, and the harder I try, the further away it floats.
If I believed in past-lives, I would wonder if this thought, intended to have been purged from my soul during my birth, didn’t somehow get stuck in the recesses of this current mind, this current life. A thought I’ll never have a full understanding of, but will always be haunted by; wisps of memories from another lifetime; voices and thoughts of people I will never know. Or perhaps, it is simply the result of a cluttered mind, needing to be cleaned out. I think of my grandmother’s attic, elusive and mysterious to me as a child, containing hidden treasures and wonders waiting to be discovered. A whole lifetime, or several lifetimes, stored above my sleeping head. So many stories to tell, so many hours to explore and imagine. I think of the disappointment when, as an adult, I was tasked with the job of cleaning it out after her passing, and I had lost all sense of it’s wonder and mystique. Instead, I felt burdened by the many boxes of junk, inconvenienced to have to move old furniture down steep attic stairs, and disgusted at layers of dust and years of neglect. Where had my pure, idyllic, childhood eyes gone? Perhaps this thought is similar, hidden behind boxes and boxes of junk that clutter my mind. A memory from childhood or a place of innocence that simply cannot penetrate this jaded adult that no longer speaks its language.
If I believed in past-lives, I would wonder if this thought, intended to have been purged from my soul during my birth, didn’t somehow get stuck in the recesses of this current mind, this current life. A thought I’ll never have a full understanding of, but will always be haunted by; wisps of memories from another lifetime; voices and thoughts of people I will never know. Or perhaps, it is simply the result of a cluttered mind, needing to be cleaned out. I think of my grandmother’s attic, elusive and mysterious to me as a child, containing hidden treasures and wonders waiting to be discovered. A whole lifetime, or several lifetimes, stored above my sleeping head. So many stories to tell, so many hours to explore and imagine. I think of the disappointment when, as an adult, I was tasked with the job of cleaning it out after her passing, and I had lost all sense of it’s wonder and mystique. Instead, I felt burdened by the many boxes of junk, inconvenienced to have to move old furniture down steep attic stairs, and disgusted at layers of dust and years of neglect. Where had my pure, idyllic, childhood eyes gone? Perhaps this thought is similar, hidden behind boxes and boxes of junk that clutter my mind. A memory from childhood or a place of innocence that simply cannot penetrate this jaded adult that no longer speaks its language.
My love for him is similar: so unattainable; so out of reach. I feel the love I have for him, yet I cannot describe it, name it, or even speak of it. Since I cannot grasp the thought swirling and dancing above my head, and I cannot indulge the feelings for a man I must not love, I instead focus on the very real and substantial task before me. The task of beginning a new life, in a new town, with nothing but evasive thoughts, sad memories, and a broken heart to carry with me. Truly, I have little more than the clothes on my back and an old Jeep Wrangler that has an intermittent air conditioner. Nonetheless, I must continue. The hope of a happy future leads me on, like that feather– always out in front of me, never in my grasp, but close enough to keep me chasing it.
“Come on, Shovel,” I call out to my dog, snapping my fingers at my side. He predictably obeys and hops into the passenger seat of the Jeep, immediately sticking his head out of the open window. I love dogs. Shovel never questions me, never second guesses my crazy decisions. He just trusts and obeys me. I climb in beside him and rub my hand down his smooth back, collecting loose fur as I go. I have to keep a lint brush in the glovebox when anyone but Shovel sits in the seat.
“Are you ready for this, boy?” He turns from the window and looks at me with big expectant eyes then barks once.
He’s ready. Am I?
