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All Hallows Day
Nov. 1st, 2011 11:51 amI use ghosts as a metaphor on a regular basis in my life. By ghosts, I rarely mean spirits of people who have physically died. I far more often mean the mental and emotional echoes of people who have passed out of my life, whether from one of my many moves or time or (sometimes even) death.
There aren't very many of these people or places who haunt me, by and large, and they come and go. They seem to come up more often in the fall and winter, but not exclusively so. Right now, it's Seattle, my ex, and my children, not necessarily in that order.
Seattle is the most surprising of these... though it's hardly the first time a place has haunted me. I find myself thinking about it a lot; wondering where a hardware store is and, for a moment, thinking of the one over by the yarn store I like in Wallingford, even though it's out of the way, and only then realizing it's half a continent away. I'm struggling to feel rooted in Cleveland and Middleburg Heights right now in a way that summers and springs don't summon up. I still don't feel like it's my city, even though it is, obviously, and has been for over a year. I need to find a way to exert some form of ownership over the idea of Cleveland, to insinuate myself into its buildings and grid and bricks and gargoyles in a way that lets me lay my hand on it without having to look. I still have to look and think and plan to know where I'm going. That's starting to wear on me. Time is the best fix for this, but that doesn't make it easier -- and until then, Seattle lives in my memory and overlays itself on my mental map of home.
My ex -- this ghost is fading for me. It has greatly faded since my relationship with Matt has grown over time -- he doesn't leave any room for it, frankly. :) But with a wedding coming up, the ghost-of-the-relationship-and-spouse-that-was stands in empty hallways, hovers near doorways, and stands over my shoulder, breathing warnings in my ear. They're faint, but insistent, and I'm forced to spend brain cycles processing them so that history cannot repeat itself in my mind. Banishing is a long and arduous process, but it's one I'm willing to do. I'll just be glad when the ghostly fingertips fade to a distant clanking in the attic, with life driving the departed on to its well-earned rest.
My kids -- these ghosts are alive and well. They dogged my footsteps last night as I walked with Matt and Teagan through the deepening twilight, surrounded by running children in masks and twinkling orange lights. I saw my own sons, running up to houses and ringing doorbells, and felt the chill of Halloweens past through my coat on top of the night's own nipping air. They are with me all the time... they hide from time to time, but then return when I least expect them, popping out of books and shows and the faces of my fiance's kids to laugh or weep and then vanish once more, slipping through my fingers again.
I'm not opposed to ghosts. Memory is a valuable thing, and the things that haunt us do so for a purpose; we learn the lessons we need to learn from the things we cannot let go. It's just good to take stock now and then of what your personal hidden landscape holds, so that you aren't taken by surprise by the tapping at the window, and can instead say, "Enter, friend, and be at peace."
There aren't very many of these people or places who haunt me, by and large, and they come and go. They seem to come up more often in the fall and winter, but not exclusively so. Right now, it's Seattle, my ex, and my children, not necessarily in that order.
Seattle is the most surprising of these... though it's hardly the first time a place has haunted me. I find myself thinking about it a lot; wondering where a hardware store is and, for a moment, thinking of the one over by the yarn store I like in Wallingford, even though it's out of the way, and only then realizing it's half a continent away. I'm struggling to feel rooted in Cleveland and Middleburg Heights right now in a way that summers and springs don't summon up. I still don't feel like it's my city, even though it is, obviously, and has been for over a year. I need to find a way to exert some form of ownership over the idea of Cleveland, to insinuate myself into its buildings and grid and bricks and gargoyles in a way that lets me lay my hand on it without having to look. I still have to look and think and plan to know where I'm going. That's starting to wear on me. Time is the best fix for this, but that doesn't make it easier -- and until then, Seattle lives in my memory and overlays itself on my mental map of home.
My ex -- this ghost is fading for me. It has greatly faded since my relationship with Matt has grown over time -- he doesn't leave any room for it, frankly. :) But with a wedding coming up, the ghost-of-the-relationship-and-spouse-that-was stands in empty hallways, hovers near doorways, and stands over my shoulder, breathing warnings in my ear. They're faint, but insistent, and I'm forced to spend brain cycles processing them so that history cannot repeat itself in my mind. Banishing is a long and arduous process, but it's one I'm willing to do. I'll just be glad when the ghostly fingertips fade to a distant clanking in the attic, with life driving the departed on to its well-earned rest.
My kids -- these ghosts are alive and well. They dogged my footsteps last night as I walked with Matt and Teagan through the deepening twilight, surrounded by running children in masks and twinkling orange lights. I saw my own sons, running up to houses and ringing doorbells, and felt the chill of Halloweens past through my coat on top of the night's own nipping air. They are with me all the time... they hide from time to time, but then return when I least expect them, popping out of books and shows and the faces of my fiance's kids to laugh or weep and then vanish once more, slipping through my fingers again.
I'm not opposed to ghosts. Memory is a valuable thing, and the things that haunt us do so for a purpose; we learn the lessons we need to learn from the things we cannot let go. It's just good to take stock now and then of what your personal hidden landscape holds, so that you aren't taken by surprise by the tapping at the window, and can instead say, "Enter, friend, and be at peace."
