Thursday, July 11, 2013

A rose thorn

 

 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

There is a rose thorn embedded in my heart, I must have swallowed it to get it there. It is sore and a little swollen. It is named 'the pain of separation'. This week, I have been forced to bring it forth, spit it out into my hand like I would a cherry pit, and see it for what it really is. We're moving. We have officially accepted the new position my husband had been offered. And thus, soon then Gypsy Caravan of life would be taking us to some new dimensions in the spirit, and perhaps, too, somewhere southeast through busy highways and country roads to our new home, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

I've been creating my little world—my home and gardens here in the Magic Valley for a thousand years; nurturing it, shaping it; giving it forms and contours only I could had bestowed. I have seen it grow with wonder-filled eyes and admiration; as it took wings and swelled and it drank the sap of determination and hope and faith from my soul and became an intricate part of me, of who I am and what I am.

And thus, I am my house. I am my gardens. My soul is twined to them like a powerful and gentle vine to its surroundings...

But it is not the material what's keeping me angst and looking back; however. There are invaluable ties of infinitely importance to me—dear ones who I deeply love and whose soul and nature, in tiny ways, just as with my house and gardens, have been unassumingly and subtlety molded and shaped in goodness and kindness through the quiet ways of influence and love...

And thus, they are me. I am them.

Should I embrace the move? Forget I'm already emotionally loaded down with memories and the realization of just how much I will be missing out on the lives of those I'm leaving behind?

So many memories so many dreams and thoughts and imaginings and voyages and encounters too, in a garden I wanted believe "enchanted"... so many pleasurable hours and joyful moments and prayers, and laughter and tears too spilled and shared with roses and angels' whispers... how many dresses and skirts and hairdos and hair colors how many pirouettes in the air and songs offered to sapphire skies; how many flip flops and shoeless days and petals tattooed on the skin... how many seasons and witches and adventures left behind....

...and my dearest daughter and sweet little Pebbles the light of my heart—I cannot fathom the idea of becoming a stranger to her...

A painful thorn. There is a rose thorn embedded in my heart.