I woke early to the raucous sounds of birds and the early morning light filtering through the pines and into the windows of the Owl’s Nest, my great great grandfather’s home. It’s always a bit disorienting to wake here, after the flurry of packing, a long day on the road and the rush of unpacking, checking the house, settling the dog and so on.
Suddenly, all is quiet … except for the birds. Actually, it’s more like time has stopped … or I’ve entered a place where time has new meaning … it loops back on itself, reveals spirals, reinterprets the life I thought I knew.
I am deeply attached to this place, and yet I don’t always like it. Maybe it’s the fact that the layers of memory are so deep. It’s never a simple vacation … a place where we can “get away from it all.” Rather, it’s a place where the old returns.
Sometimes that is a gift and a deeply comforting one. My mother is near to me here. I see her making beds, walking up and down the creaking stairs of this old house, sitting on the stone porch. And I feel her love of place and family. It is so ingrained in who I am.
But this place also holds memories of losses – the years when my mother’s mind was slipping away, her confusion, the hurts she held onto. Things I don’t want to see.
Yet, it also reminds me that these things are like the rings on a tree. Passing phases in the life of a family. Last night when I walked down to our dock, I took a photo of the waning sun and studied what used to be my grandparents’ boathouse.
I remembered making my way as a child through spider webs to climb into the old teak motorboat. For years, the boathouse was dilapidated, until a cousin recently did a major renovation on it. Now it has new life, yet its image still holds the past within it.
Perhaps some of what is difficult about being in this place is the jumble of old and new all mixed together, like the chaotic blend of birdsong this morning. A part of me is busy sorting, sorting through the amalgam … trying to understand the different songs and figure out where I fit.