It is no wonder we write books with chapters. Life is like a book, broken down into moments of happenings, each leading into the next, until the final end. There are chapters better than others. Sometimes you are reading along and you think, I wouldn’t have written it that way. That’s terrible. Couldn’t it have turned out better?
My individual life story turned very dramatic and sad a few years ago. There was the chapter about happily-ever-after being interrupted by the third bout of cancer for my handsome prince. The chapter about the final courageous battle he fought and didn’t win. And the chapter of aimless wandering in my search of healing. Then the next few chapters were action packed with changes.
The chapter I’m in now, I would like to have written differently, but I’m not the author of this story. I know that I have a direct line to the author, and sometimes I have the choice how the scene may go. But most the time I feel like the unsuspecting character being affected by things outside of my control.
For instance, I just signed on the sale of my house. The house I lived in the longest period in my gypsy style life. It’s funny how we try to settle down in life. Find that one little spot and put up a white picket fence, expecting to live out our days in wise contemplation. Instead, we forget life is never at rest. It is a journey with changing chapters, some good and some bad.
And the only baggage we get to take with us into the next phase of life after the book has ended, are the memories we have amassed. I know this deep inside of me, yet I keep trying to slow down and find that one place to call home, to put up my feet and rest awhile and write off that chapter as the end.
Not to be. For the last year, in getting ready for the sale and moving, I have learned this lesson with each treasure I have decided to keep, give to someone or throw away. I had no idea one could collect that much stuff in a mere eighteen years! But as I cleaned out one room after another in the house, memories flooded back with each object wrapped and tucked away or put into a trash bin.
I realize now, that a house is just walls that will eventually turn to dust. Just like our bodies will one day. In staying there I am only hoarding memories, not writing new chapters. That is why I collected so many objects that triggered those memories. But when I signed, I walked away from the house I loved with all the memories of living there and interacting with all the family and friends that crossed the threshold. And of course, I was reminded, like any good chapter that you can go back and read over, the most precious thing is going with me. My family and friends
We will gather again somewhere else, and make new memories, and share the old. Like all the trips I have made to other countries and states, there are ups and downs. But I know now this is not my final home. The last chapter will never be written. There is always a new destination and a new existence. We are not meant to be planted and have white picket fences. We are not meant to be stationary but to grow and learn, explore and discover new things about ourselves and the world around us, in this life and the next.
So I say goodbye to the place I thought to live out the rest of my life. It is a bittersweet feeling. But obviously, the book is going on. Life is truly the never-ending story.