Flyin' Shoes

It never ceases to amaze me how much of our memories are either lost, locked away, or just buried, under a congruence of new thoughts. The human mind, is often very unforgiving when it comes to not taking people for granted, making autonomous their existence and influence, the way that we absorb ultimately subconscious actions, such as walking or driving.

Does this mean they are unimportant elements of the past? certainly not. What it does mean however, is that we are all, no matter how rich or famous, ultimately destined to be forgotten as physical beings, given enough time. At the very best, some will remain as a collection of words on a page, or image on a screen. What is never lost, is the influence that we all leave on an individual which will eventually make its way, however filtered, to other generations who interact with the lineage before them. Every single one of us leaves a legacy, no matter how small or unapparent it may seem.

Here’s to those sub-conscious influences passed to me. While new memories sometimes smother older ones, the often invisible legacy will always continue.

Wonderful dream last night, visiting mum in our old house, in England.  The new owners were there but, she was allowed to stop in occasionally, for some unknown sentimental reasons.  I remember approaching the front gate (which is iconic for me, having met my father in my dreams, walking the same route) and asking some guy if he owned the house; said he did but to go on in.

I looked for parcels under the table as I entered the house, just as I used to, and headed into the kitchen/dining room, where mum was cleaning.  She told me that she was still clearing a few things out, and handed me two items of cutlery with extremely long handles; they looked old and ornate.  I recall thinking but not asking, that the new owners wouldn’t be too happy at us being in their home.  Mum replied that it was OK and that there was some kind of arrangement.  At that point, the owners came back and the female of the couple (some middle-aged woman that I didn’t recognise) was scowling and looked slightly annoyed.

I forget why, but we headed out toward the back garden and upon opening the kitchen doors, I had a panorama of the bay, except that it was the view that I normally saw from my bedroom window.  I stood there staring at the view for a while, at which point, it turned into a giant painting – the whole view was a canvas and I could see every brush-stroke that had gently swirled across the view; pinks and greys being the only colours I could pick out.  The painting began to move and the world became alive through it.

I think in the dream, I understood the relevance – life is art, it is a giant canvas and our ability to see the brush strokes can make the difference between it being a masterpiece, or an empty, flat interpretation.  I am not the artist and yet, as I understand how to see the brush strokes in everything, my own life will reveal the meaning I’m looking for, in this dynamic piece of constantly flowing art.

The biggest challenge, comes from learning to just let go of everything, and trust in the artist; to enjoy being part of the painting and what it represents.

Every so often, I will stop for a breath; remember people I should forget less often, gather thoughts that have been unattended and then let out that breath, to float my memories into the breeze. My grounding is simple, effective and it endures my irrational fears. At these times comes understanding that life itself, continues to dwindle and be unapologetically short; how dare I, of all people, spend a single moment wasting it.

These times are amongst the most important. I inhale a new breath, pass thanks for the people before me, those that have travelled with me and those I’ve still to find, then, I take a larger stride forward, with such a great smile.