A rogue wind gust smashes through the window and sucks the ashes of her ancestors from their urn, scattering them back out across the vast, midnight landscape…and so the protagonist knows that finally she is home.
Sounds delightful doesn’t it? Knowing that you are home. Forever. Where you are meant to be.
Actually, I find it a bit terrifying. I know better. I’ve witnessed it thousands of times; people who think that life will never change. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that forever-at-home feeling.
Perhaps I should elaborate; I feel at home everywhere and nowhere. I have a gypsy soul and have a tendency to want to wander. I’ve lived close to the bone, just surviving with enough, and according to the stages of my life; student, young wife, mother, mother of a teenager…and soon, just me again.
This past year has been a combination of settling in and hurrying up to wait. And it’s killing me. Seriously, I am not a patient woman.
I am decisive and spontaneous, and quite frankly sick of the daily, commuting-to-barely-pay-the-bills-soul-sucking-grind. In light of not having a partner in adventure to plan the next grand project, place or party, I’m preparing to pack up my parlour and part. But all in good time.
As my Mumster would say,
My body is still here, but my spirit has moved on.
I get what she means. I’m restless and dreaming, and just fed up enough not to be nervous, which actually does make me a little nervous.
To anyone out there who thinks things don’t change, don’t kid yourself. To those of you who have a spirit of adventure, I wish you speedy decluttering, friends to help you unpack and courage.