Moving. Moving on.

I moved again. I packed up my little house of fur and things, and trekked to another place to fill with echoes.

In the moving, I found all these old report cards from when I was a child. 7 or 8 years old. And even then, I was not kind to myself.

Hidden in between all the normal silliness of my nature – Jessie likes to talk, Jessie should entertain, Jessie should pay more attention in class, Jessie tries really hard and is a hard worker – in between all of that…

Jessie lacks self confidence.

Jessie is unsure of herself too often.

Jessie is loud.

How can an 8 year old already be so consumed with doubt, that they start to find ways to hide their nature.

How on earth can an 8 year old already be told that she does not properly fit the mold? To try harder. To fit in.

In the memory of all the things that I hold on to – I can’t remember what made me this way. Was I born like this? Doubting. Consumed with never being enough. Tortured by the power I give to others.

I just know that as I was then – so I am now.

I try really, really hard. But I give my power away too often. Too eagerly. Too quickly.

So I find solace in the solitude.

In fur.

In echoes.

In silence.

 

terry-pratchett-quotes

The joy of the dance

I got to thinking the other day about the music of our lives. How some songs stick with us through the years and remind us of better, or worse, times.

How the music of our parents reminds us of a war maybe, or a hardship, we did not personally live through.

How the music of our peers reminds us of a person, or a place long forgotten.

How the music that reaches down into our very substance and speaks to us can truly defines us. It is not necessarily good music, or well written. Or even popular. It is a chance meeting sometimes, lyrical beauty and depth hiding in the places you least expect to find them.

It is the songs of our innocence Pink Toothbrush by Max Bygraves. Of the times when dance and imagination and bravery and joy and solitude were the things that made us whole. When drama and performing were an option Yellow Submarine by the Beatles. Where Jeremiah was a Bullfrog by Three Dog Night was the best thing you ever heard, innocent and silly.

It is the songs of loss Amazing Grace by Celtic Woman sung at the funeral of a father you never really knew. And the song your mother used to heal herself We will meet again by Vera Lynn.

It is the songs of growing up where The Locomotion by Kyle Minogue was on everyone’s lips and we weren’t ashamed of it. Where the difference between a singing and speaking voice was endlessly debated Never gonna give you up by Rick Astley.

It is trying to find a place that accepts you, and liking what you think will find peace, and learning to love it for what it is –

Satan bites the dust by Carmen

The Champion by Carmen

It is the beginning of the formulation of your own musical identity –

Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen

Bed Of Roses by Bon Jovi

Losing My Religion by REM

Maria by Blondie

Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve

Take On Me by a-ha

Johnny Come Home by Fine Young Cannibals

“Welcome to the Black Parade” by My Chemical Romance

The list is too long to put here…

It is to this day the memory of some of the most beautiful music you remember hearing. The kind that they rarely make anymore –

The Rose by Bette Midler

Power Of Love by Jennifer Rush

It is falling in love with the songs that tell a story –

The River by Garth Brooks

The Thunder Rolls by Garth Brooks

The songs you love because you have to –

Jessie by Joshua Kadison

It is my God song –

Nothing Is Written by Mumford and Sons

And it is the song you identify most with –

I Lived by OneRepublic

There will be more. Songs that remind me of people, places, times and events. Some will be joyous, some traumatic and some sad.

Songs of love, loss, joy, triumph.

The songs that resonate with my soul.

Ponder me this

I have been trawling through some of the blogs on word press and to say I feel intimidated is to be kind.

I have always loved writing. I remember writing the most convoluted stories when I was child growing up on the farm. Having the basic story down on paper, I would then dress myself up in my mothers favorite flat sheet (princess dress once appropriately draped and pinned) and off I would go to rehearse the words, nuances, pauses of every moment of every character.

Not that I had any idea what a nuance was. In my child mind, I just knew that certain things needed to be said a certain way.

To say I was a child is also putting it kindly. While I may have started my play act rehearsing as a child, I clearly remember being about 15 when I finally stopped the enactments.

However, for the longest time, even now when I am deeply stressed or upset, I still rehearse the lines of the story that has run in my head forever.

A story of bravery and courage and the girl triumphant and love. Or unicorns and dragons and swords and heroes.

I keep thinking I should turn it into a book, but it is so deeply part of my childhood, my consciousness, my subconsciousness that I fear I wouldn’t do it justice. Growing up, my television favorite and hero was MacGuyver. To this day, I won’t watch the reruns because I don’t want to ruin the memory of it. The pure joy of the adventure. 

To put my never ending story to paper, may just end it. 

I don’t think I could bear the loss.