Silly String

I have had people come and go in my Life. I have had people tell me we will be the ones sitting in the rocking chairs on the porch, reminiscing. I have had people have an instantaneous connection with me from the first time we met, being drawn to one another. Not all of them in a romantic sense. Actually more were on an energetic pull that we still claim not to be measurable in a scientific enough way that we tend to suppress it. Trying to make logic decisions about our life that cannot be handled but on an instinctual level.

And so it is that the majority of these people exited my life. In various ways. With more or less dramatic subtleties while present and even more while absent. I used to want to sever some of these connections after our physical coming apart. Trying to cleanse my existence from their influences. At times gnawing so very desperately at our string of attachment, like an animal's desperate attempt to chew its limb off that had gotten stuck in a trap. Foolishly believing that whatever measures I took would expunge their existence.

Well, it doesn't quite work that way. Traces of their existence remain in my life indubitably. Showing up anywhere from daily to the "Holy cow I totally forgot about that" memory recall. My absolutely no chance of succeeding attempts of removing something that is part of my story, were only prolonging the process of integrating events and people into the web of my life.

I was a poor weaver with all the threads that were gifted to me. It reminds me of the school project I had to do when I was maybe seven years old. We had to crochet a square pot holder. As with anyone, I am better skilled at some things than others. Crocheting was not on my to be mastered skill. Especially not at that tender age. I did complete the project, alas it was a horrific site. Lopsided, unevenly looped, the yarn appearing to want to cry out in agony, desperate to be unstrung again. I didn't turn it in on the day the assignment was due because I was ashamed of my piece of work. Hoping if I didn't turn it in, my teacher would just grade me an incomplete and forget about it. Instead my teacher made me go home to retrieve it, insisting on me showing my work. I was crying all the way home and crying all the way back to school. Fearing the criticism and ridicule of my shoddy work. Funny thing is, I don’t even remember the reaction of the teacher nor my fellow students to my piece of work. Only all the events leading up to me turning it in.

It is an invaluable part of my childhood.

Anyways, I have finally managed to stop shredding apart the life I am weaving with the threads given to me. Instead I am learning to lovingly integrate all parts into the masterpiece it was designed to be. No matter how lopsided it turns out.

https://youtu.be/EspCzgXH0o0