Ah, so it has been awhile since my last post. But, that is the past and I've been hit by inspiration and a push to share words with the interwebs again. I cannot promise you how often I will share, but I can say that I feel like I have a lot of energy to send back out into the infinite abyss. If you choose to read the words here, I feel honored that you spent your time with me. And, with that, we shall move on.
It has been nearly six years since my father died and today I finally had the courage to open up his tackle box. The old, sun bleached tan plastic has served its time on many boats and creek banks. It is most likely older than I am and since my father died, I could not bear to open it. It was just another hurtful reminder of time and memories we had spent together.
Anyone who has suffered a loss, knows that the process to heal is very much on its own time schedule. This is probably the thing that frustrates me the most about healing. I am not a patient person, and I do not ever want others to see if I am hurting, so I rush through the stages of healing and pronounce myself fit and whole. I realize how much I'm cheating myself by doing this, but my pride often refuses to have it any other way.
On my way home today, my mind wandered to thoughts of my Dad. I passed a large creek on my drive and it was as if he had rested his large hand on my shoulder and whispered " Julie, do you remember..."
And, I did.
I remembered when he would take me to Mallory Run for the first day of junior fishing when I wasn't even in double digits. All the parents and kids would line the banks of the little creek as colorful bobbers swam in the slowly moving creek, making it look like it was full of Easter eggs. I would hover over him, watching as he carefully baited the hook of my fishing pole. He always smelled of crisp air and Newport Light Kings. I would watch him intently as he explained how to cast off the line, with the florescent pink bobber tied to it. He had scrolled the letter J in Sharpie on the bobber so I wouldn't get it confused with any others taking a dip in the water.
So, when I got home today, I knew it was time, the universe was pushing me to heal a little more, to remember, to cry and honor those memories. I wandered down to the basement and pulled the heavy plastic tackle box off the shelf. Sitting down on the cold concrete floor, I flipped the metal fasteners on each side, and pulled the box apart at the center to let the trays flip up.
I was met with a rush of memories as I looked in the box. It was full of brightly colored lures of every kind, spare hooks, a spool of fishing line, and baggies of zip ties with GTE printed on the outside of the yellowing plastic. My father had worked for this company until he retired... in 1999. (He must have raided the zip tie closet before he left!)
And, my heart stopped when I saw the little pink bobber, with a "J." in the corner of the box.
As I sorted through the rest of the odds and ends, I felt myself heal a little bit, felt my heart smile and my soul warm.
My message is this: Allow your self to heal at the pace you need. Do not rush yourself. Enjoy memories.Cry in happiness. Cry in sorrow. This is how you heal yourself; you let yourself feel. Open your heart center to all that is there, and when a memory hits you out of nowhere and steals your breath, stop for a moment and let it settle in your soul.
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