While attempting to work this week there has been constant noise from next door - the sound of workmen crashing and banging around in the garden. I wondered if the lady that lives next door might have moved out for the week while her roof is renovated - I had heard who I can only presume was her grand-daughter asking a thousand and one questions in the front garden a day or so before.
I think I was wrong.
The workmen have stripped the house - emptying it - destroying everything as they go. The lady that lived next door wasn’t the original tenant - her mother and father were. For the last several years she has been living with her mother - caring for her. Her father died some years ago. I can only imagine her mother must have passed away recently - and the house is being cleared as a result.
The grand-daughter must have been visiting with her family to pick up keepsakes. Clearing the house. It cast her visit from a joyful one to something entirely different.
It was sad - seeing so many of the possessions of a family being thrown away - disposed of. The most brutal of endings to a history - to memories, stories, and recollections. All manner of fixtures, fittings, furniture and now piled upon each other - mangled, broken, and discarded.
I’ve been thinking about people’s obsession with “things”. The saying that you can’t take anything with you came into focus these last few days. Things really don’t matter at all, do they? It’s about moments - moments shared - laughter, stories, and memories.
It occurred to me that my memories - my stories - my thoughts - will also be forgotten when I am gone. Unless I write them down.
Have I finally found a validation for the journal? Perhaps.
Of course you can only write stories down if you have stories to tell - and that implies living a little life from time to time. Making memories. Sharing smiles and laughter.
My word tonight’s post is melancholy.
Perhaps there’s a realisation going on - that I’ve been buried in work for so long that it’s become my “normal” - not good. I read a passage recently reminding that when we are gone the projects we stressed and worried about - that consumed our working lives - would be quickly carried forwards by others. Our part is rarely the beginning or the end - it is almost always somewhere in the middle.
I’m reminded of something a good friend told me recently about getting into debt - that he wasn’t worried about it at all - because that was a problem for future him - f*ck that guy.
It really is about today, isn’t it. Not so much about tomorrow or yesterday. It’s about reaching out, sharing smiles, and making stories together. It’s not about what might have been - it’s about where we are now, and where we might be next. It’s not even about choosing sliding doors - it’s about standing in front of a door - any door - and the excitement of opening it - finding out what might happen next - without expectation, but with all the hope we can muster.