The unicorn meat eating cats' window remains closed for now. There are too many mosquitoes out there, in this wet and humid summer. Maybe later, when I have had enough coffee to swat at them.
The drunk that calls me, called yesterday. I didn't answer the phone. My heart bleeds for the guy, but I am under strict instructions from my sponsor and my therapist to save myself. I am just not strong enough to keep him afloat as he dies.
I do not feel like cutting, or drinking, right now. Today is the day I mow the grass, so I am scheduled to have a good day.
Some of the women were not at our group session on Wednesday, for borderline personality disorder. There's always something missing when even one of us is gone. Especially when it is me.
The window may have to go up, soon. The cats are coming into conflict on top of the laptop. I think it will be a normal Saturday, as days of the week go. For some reason lately, in the past week, I have been reluctant to examine my memories, always the richest of stores for writing. I can only hope it is a sign that I want to live for today.
Although rooting through memories is good for the examined life, and the character building the Program requires of us, sometimes, memories stand in the way of living in today. I cannot always be rolling in nostalgia, although I miss my parents, and the Old House as much as ever.
I may as well tell you: I dreamed that a commercial developer and a tire plant were encroaching on the field last night. For me, forever, the field will lie below the Old House, as it did when we lived there. Nothing can stain my vision of it, except these dreams, if I let them. The conflict that exists in me, that the Old House exists, and does not belong to me and I to it, and yet it remains in my memory, forever mine, shatters me.
It is as difficult a problem as I can handle right now. The reality is, that Sunninghill, the Old House, (named for one of Henry XIII favorite houses) was ours for a while, but is not now. Now, the Old House is a memory of mine. I suppose that is the resolution of the conflict in my head and heart. The Me, that my life in the Old House created, is part of me forever. The reality is, that someone else now loves the Old House, and the fields and woods surrounding it, as much as we ever did.
It's at that point, that I start to sweat. Of course, it is reality that the Old House lives on in me, in my heart. It clings to the dirt I brought along with my Mother's pots, and to the bottom of the feet of the angel that now stands in my garden, here. My clothes are infused with it, as is the furniture that I love. It even lives on in other beings...my two male cats, lived at the Old House for 13 years, before being brought here.
I must resist the temptation to recreate the Old House wherever I go, from here. Like planting a tree in the yard here, or adopting another cat. I must resign myself to being more mobile, more economical. I will have to enjoy decorating the space I have, instead of new plans for the space I had for so long.
But the cats are still left with me, and you, who started this journey with me in 2010, you have a place in the memory of the Old House, too. You have your own spot, set against the hobbit hill in the sunlight, in the field below...