History

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I was somewhat confused last week for a couple of days. They were not good days, to be fair. I was walking in the old part of my town, where houses sit in quaint or highly maintained beauty. I like old houses, although I wouldn’t necessarily want to live in one. I love the quality of materials, the ornate details, the spacious feel of them, the established gardens. I wouldn’t want to take care of one by myself though, they were not meant for it and I would end up resenting it.

But I digress…

I was confused because here I was, watching history, surrounded by it, and yet I longed for history with everything in me, until it was painful. It took a lot of walking and analysing to figure out that, like beauty in another article, it was the degree of history, for want of a better word, that I was getting all muddled up about. Let’s see if I can explain.

I live in a very young country, set on very young land. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy living here and there is something to be said about the rebellious certainty of youth, children and teenagers alike. When I arrived here, I was in human years a bit older than this country. But human years being what they are, I am now much older than this country. A different generation already. Hence part of my discontent. From peer I feel now like a parent, wanting to guide, to teach, to shelter. If you have teenagers you know how well that will go down

I am grumbling, I know. There is nothing to be done, there is no substitute for time and experience both. So there is no fault. It’s just that, human years being what they are, I will be long gone before anything changes, and that is annoying

The confusion I felt was exactly this generation gap. The houses I was admiring are old in human years alone, and even then just barely. The history I was longing and yearning for goes a lot further back. Not just in human history, but sheer age of the land. Something to lean on to without feeling guilty I suppose

I can see only two ways forward. No, I am not going to get over myself. Denying a need does not a content human being make!

First of all I can get closer to the natural world of this country, especially as represented in the myths and legends of the native people. There is, after all, a time line of nature that might even be called permanence in our language.

The second thing I can do is travel to a place that has the history I need. Like burnt out execs blobbing in an all-inclusive resort I can also go to get my fill of history in older countries set on older land.

Sounds simple and in a way it is… now for the waiting until money and other things line up… maybe start with a passport as my Christmas present?

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Change

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Mmm, interesting, this one… yes, the French and the Latin have had a go but it is probably derived from Celtic and it seemed to be back then “all about the money, all about the dum-dum-dum-de-de-dum”. Sorry, could not resist the song 🙂

Change also makes our lives interesting, and that’s probably the understatement of the year! For a species so loudly proclaimed as adverse to change, we seem to inflict a heck of a lot of it on ourselves! Note – we are also adaptable as a species, but that in no way cancels out the above – apples and oranges, you know?

I was thinking about changes lately, both from the challenge and the loss perspectives.

A change is a challenge mostly when you initiate it yourself, or when the result of the change leaves you… still you. So, ironically, a change is a challenge when you remain unchanged. You may change your country, your job, your house. As long as those changes are of your own accord, or irrelevant to your person (open plan office? Hot-desking? Technology updates? ) you grumble, mumble, rumble and get on with it.

A change is a loss when it is done to you, without your accord or with a result that leaves you diferent. Our individuality does not take this kindly, if at all. Death, separation, illness, natural or man-made disaster…. the list goes on. You may, in time, accept these changes, but you are not the same person as you were before the change, and we mourn this probably more than the actual change.

Change as loss is insidious and cunning, pervasive and disabling, annoying and startling. It is a digging and quarrying of the soul until nothing clean or whole exists and every bit of you is disjointedly propping up crumbling walls of the self, with the result of us limping fearfully through the same life we may have embraced before.

We may associate this type of change with loss of youth or innocence. We cannot unsee, unfeel, undo our experiences. We can, sometimes, traumatically forget and yet that isn’t an “unchange” so we reject it. But after the bewilderment and the anger and the grief, we prove our adaptability and we take the minutes and the days and the years onto this other path that is laid out inf ront of us.

We are brave, you know? We are brave exactly when it matters, in the dead of the night, when the seconds are unwillingly counted in breaths. And from the twisting and warping of who we were then, the bonsai understands, accepts, and tries its darnedest to protect the young, straight, tall sapling growing nearby.

I can but hope…