In the process of packing, I found my old journals. I'm not a disciplined person in the conventional sense but I have always loved writing and feelings and words. I have been fascinated in trying to translate my feelings into words which is always a symbolic gesture because feelings are tricky buggers.
From a young age I have kept a diary. Always afraid that a sibling would get their hands on them, my entries were more of a practical than emotional detail. Occasionally I would slip in some cryptic clue as to what was really going on. I'm none the wiser now to what I meant though.
Finding a diary from early this century I was astounded to read how fearful, sad and unconfident I was. I shed a tear for the younger version of me who pulled myself apart because of yet another cryptic reason. I was so afraid of change and now I understand why. Having lost my mum as a young woman, I tried in vain, to keep control of the things I thought I could. Change was dangerous and painful.
Yet here I am, almost 20 years later facing absolutely every possible change at my own doing. Boxes all around my very comfortable home. No idea of exactly where I will be on the night of the 30th due to lockdown restrictions being extended and I am not scared! I even wore some new running shoes today because yesterday my old ones' sole flapped off.
My one dear friend called it soul/sole change in progress.
I think that is exactly what is going on.
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