Just mooching accurately describes my present state of being. It is a hot and sunny day and I am sitting at a perfect vantage point in the garden. There are houses below us, farmland beyond with the valley rising to hills and mountains in the distance. I can see the hazy outline of the Great Orme, Llandudno in the far distance and numerous wind turbines in the sea. The murmur of traffic drifts over from the A55, that’s okay. Regardless of the state of the weather I feel blessed to be living in a place like this. Being a transplant from London to a rural part of North Wales has not been easy. It has involved several years of living in shared digs in Cheshire and Manchester (that’s for another day) and a long daily commute to work in Manchester. We were renovating our house at the time and it was 95% habitable. I came home at weekends, then decided one day to move in permanently. The move occurred on 31 October 2010. My ancestors must have heard all the prayers and eased my situation. My partner helped me move and that was the last I saw of the weird landlord. Hooray! My adventures in shared digs were a mixture of the Twilight Zone and a bad film noir.
The rural idyll draws thousands of people from towns and cities wanting to create a better life for themselves. Nothing wrong in that, this has been going on for centuries across the globe. Migrations have been a natural part of human history for millennia. The dream doesn’t always work out though, but that doesn’t stop the pursuit of an ideal. For my partner and I it was a life enhancing decision. He wanted to go back home to Wales and I had enough of London after living there nearly all my life. It has been worth it and we are glad to get to the place called Home after work each day. I still commute to work but not as far. There are downsides of course. Poor public transport where we live, the nearest railway station is about 10 miles away, the shops being the same. I rely on lifts and taxis to get me to a railway station, but we made a choice to live where we do. Many compromises had to be made, which is fine. A sacrifice made willingly has a greater, positive impact upon the web of life. It offers valuable energy to enable us to run the machinery of our lives. The symbol of the willing sacrifice is filled with deep mystery and wisdom, especially when viewed in relation to Sacrificed Gods. You may or may not think at this juncture what on earth I am talking about. Please indulge me a little; this is my stream of consciousness after all. A subject for another day perhaps?
My rare excursions to London to visit family and old friends are precious moments, especially since the death of my father last year. On the downside, the rush of traffic and people are quite unsettling. It is strange wandering round the city and seeing my old haunts. Rather like the reaction when you see an old friend after many years. You notice that their eyes are a little tired, a few more laughter lines have appeared, life appears to have taken a toll on them. Essentially they are the same, wonderful person that drew you to them so many years ago. There is sadness over the years both of you have lost, that is inevitable in any relationship. This does not overshadow the meeting though. The affection is still there. A pipe dream is to win the lottery and buy a house round the corner from the British Museum as a base in London, just putting in my request Great Angel Sachiel…
Home is where the heart is and mine at this time is the little cottage in a corner of North Wales. I carry the essence of “Home” within my heart and pour it out where I choose to call home.
We tend to form strong attachments to objects, places and people and grieve terribly when they become lost to us. Bereavement is not only about loss of loved ones but also of memories, places, objects, sense of self. What is it that we have invested in these receptacles that arouse such strong emotions within us? Seen against the larger canvas of time, these are but tiny drops fed into the great Ocean of Being; yet not to be dismissed but cherished. They give our lives meaning.
Just mooching? Not quite.
Main picture – taken by author
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/67430875@N03/8555151368″>Great Court</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a>
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/35633721@N00/12685452424″>DSC_0997</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a>