Notes on the Wall

Finding that poem in the attic, I read it again to my present self.

Dear future self,

When you read this, I hope you are free.
Free from this place with no windows
Which is also like a cozy nest
Know that there is more in this world
Than these walls
This life

Forgiven,
E.

This house has stood for 115 years, 95 of them in our family's ownership.  17 kids born there, making their marks on the doorways, porch, kitchen counter.

Now it is ours for just a few days more.  I've painted over the place where I measured the kids as they grew.  I've spackled over the holes where my grandparent's wedding picture used to hang.  I've pulled out all of the garden, including the beautiful compost.

It's empty and I'm free.

I know my cousins, aunts, uncles, and father have let go, but it's hard for me, the caretaker for just 15 of those years.  I can't seem to forgive myself and move on yet.

Maybe forgiving myself means letting go, a little at a time, of those things I think I ought to be doing but cannot.  Maybe, just maybe, being free doesn't mean being without attachments but rather being aware of the need for attachments (comfort, home, family) and being willing to let go, just for a moment, of my constant grasping and reaching for that which is not God, and allowing myself to rest in the hand of God, content.