Dear Reader,

My oldest turned eighteen on the 6th, and since that’s a pretty significant birthday, I thought I’d do some reflection. Most of you probably remember when you were a kid how people would often tell you that they couldn’t believe that you were. . . (fill in the blank age). Well, when you have kids, you often hear that from others about your kids, and sometimes you’re the one saying it. Yes, it does seem impossible that I have an eighteen year old kid. On the other hand, it seems totally plausible that eighteen years have come and gone, with so much life happening in-between.

As an introvert who mostly lived inside of her head (and often still does), I thought there was no way that I could ever be truly present enough to be a parent. Consequently, having kids was something I never really thought about. But, that all changed when I became pregnant. I’m never one to shy away from a challenge, but rather someone who is prepared to go all-in when the need arises. I wasn’t necessarily ready, but I knew that I would be.

During the time that I was pregnant with my oldest, my grandmother was planning on moving out of her house. My grandfather had passed away a number of years ago, and my nanny had been living in the house alone. Even though my grandfather had died in the house, she found comfort there with her memories. She was in her nineties and still doing quite well, but the house had just become too much for her to care for. As I’ve mentioned here before, my grandparents were everything to me. And, their house was a living entity of warmth, love, and acceptance to all who entered. My favorite cousin and I spent summers there from the time we were little kids until we both had jobs as teenagers. Both he and I were in need of a special place where we could be held by special people, and we landed with both feet, forever changed for the better.

As my family helped my grandmother pack up her memories in boxes, a very pregnant me spent most of the time crying and wondering how I was ever going to say goodbye to this house. How could I walk out that back door for the last time? It was hard enough coming into the house without my grandfather there, but now, it would all be gone. The house would go on to hold memories for other families. And while we’d hold our own memories in our hearts, that physical presence would be gone.

So, as the day drew near to say goodbye, we headed to my grandmother’s house for one last dinner. My aunt, her family and friends, my parents, and my husband and I gathered together at the table and told stories. After dinner, with the sky already dark, and the minutes ticking away, I sat at the table and diagramed sentences with my cousin. Yes, you read that correctly. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I walked out the door for the last time. Then, as if on cue, when I was having those thoughts, my chair broke and I came crashing to the floor. I was a little shaken up, but fine, so I went into the living room to sit on the sofa, and not long after that, my water broke.

As if a light switched on, suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about saying goodbye to this house anymore. I was thinking about my baby. So, I kissed and hugged everyone goodbye, especially my grandmother, and my husband and I headed out into the night. In that moment, my perspective completely shifted, and I don’t have any bad memories about leaving that house. I remember that night because I became a mother, not because I said goodbye to my grandparents’ house.

I have never driven past that house ever since my grandmother left, and I never will. It lives just like it always did, in my memories, forever captured in time. A symbolic representation of my childhood. When I’m feeling scared or anxious, I close my eyes and walk through all of the rooms of the house, trying my best to remember everything I can. It always brings me a sense of calm and peace.

I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and thus effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start to tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognized their voice the spell is broken. Delivered to us, they have overcome death and return to share our life.

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our own intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) of which we have no inkling. And it depends on chance whether or not we come upon this object before we ourselves must die.

Swann’s Way

-Marcel Proust

Last Week At A Glance

• We celebrated a birthday with fun, family, friends, and good food.

• I finished Swann’s Way. I think this is the third time I’ve read it. This time I plan on reading all of In Search of Lost Time

• I finished a crochet/knit vest for myself.

• I cleaned out my closet and dresser.

• I made myself some new yoga clothes.

• I found a side table at the thrift store last week for $5, which I sanded, painted, and brought to my studio.

• My family and I played Scrabble several times.

• I played some card games with my kids.

• I painted a display piece that I’m going to take to the studio.

• A started a new crochet piece that I’m making for me.

• I listed new one-off items on the website.

  

• I had some shopping appointments and met some lovely people. This reminded me yet again, that community is everything.

• I received a donation from a customer.

• I took down all of the Christmas decorations. For some reason the tree was quite aggressive, because I looked like a hedgehog by the time I got it outside.

• I started work on some paper clay creations. These will be larger functional sculptures and I’m really excited to get to work.

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