I am sitting here with Charlie listening to “Peaceful Piano” by Paul Cardall. I had never heard of him before a few days ago. But I found his music online, listened to it, and ordered the CD.
Yes, there are digital ways to listen to music these days. But this is the way I left off listening to music long ago and the way I’m picking it back up now. Like a thread that needs to join up to a seam and be knotted.
The soft music flowing through the speakers of the CD player is so relaxing that my mind drifts. Back, way back, to other times.
So many years I didn’t want to hear music. I needed silence. To collect my thoughts and explain them to myself. And then find a way to let them go.
How something happened and what we did then and what we perhaps should have done differently is how we gain insight.
I suppose my brain isn’t quite ready to move past all the memories, even if I want to let them slip away.
Where I Have Lived & Left:
I have lived in so many houses. Loved gardens I created and then walked away from. It’s hard to leave things behind that we love. That we know we’ll never see again. And that we’ll hold in our memory, a fragile object that we take with us down a lonely road.
I’ve said goodbye to so many places. So many houses that I lovingly fixed up and decorated with my heart filled with such hope for the future.
There is one particular house, an old two story house built around 1900, that I lived in 20 years ago.
I remember the way the sunlight came through the front window. And when it snowed, I’d sit on the couch and the light shining through would be almost blinding. The crystals of the snow would light up like diamonds.
It was such a beautiful old house, but I only lived there a few years. All that hard work and I had to walk away from it.
Feeling So Lucky:
I’d first walked into that house in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine how I’d come to live in such a grand old house.
But the memories there are like shards of glass. If you placed a finger on the pulse of the atmosphere you would come away with blood on your hands.
When I left that house I took with me the sadness of how things turned out. I had to let go of the dreams I’d had that my future grandchildren would run up and down those stairs.
Inside those old walls were whispers of the past.
That house had at one time been a doctor’s office and his patients would come there to see him.
They walked up the front steps to the big porch. Entered the grandeur of an old house that had stood resolute in the best and worst of times.
I wonder if the doctor had rocking chairs on that front porch like I did? To sit and rock and watch the sun set. To greet neighbors walking past.
Just Going Where It Leads Me:
Oh, how do I drift so far off my original topic, I always ask myself. I rarely intend to write what I end up writing. It is like a script has already been written and I just follow the lines where they take me.
There is probably a reason this happens that I’m unaware of. A necessary recalling of other times. Something that, for some reason unknown to me, just needs to be remembered.
I learned a long time ago not to struggle against it. Those memories light a path for me to follow. And so I follow it.
“We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.”
― Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon