Ghosts

yesterday was a painful day, and it was also a beautiful day.  I allowed myself to feel feelings I've been denying, stuffing, ignoring.  I went there and then I got here.  Here is the other side where there is forgiveness and joy and peace.  It's easier to smile and laugh here.  It's easier to give and receive love too.  It's easier to look back with a grateful heart instead of a bitter and bruised one.

I ended up there as soon as I cued up Carly Simon radio.  Carol King, James Taylor, Cat Stevens and Joni Mitchell take me back to my childhood.  These were the artists my parents listened to on their turn tables, and they are singers and songwriters that I often find comfort in now.  Ah, but it was one of those days that the universe seemed to be sending me signs through the airwaves because the particular songs and the timing struck me as meaningful and deliberate.

I ended up with a box full of of old photos.  Hundreds of random snapshots, some taken decades ago and others more recently, heaped together in no order and for no apparent reason.  I looked through them.  I looked at each and every one, and I cried.  I felt grief over so many losses.  Everything felt untethered, damaged or dismissed.  Everything was cracked wide open.

I cried until I was out of tears.  I wrote until I had no more words.  And then the heaviness lifted.  The weight of the sentiment wasn't gradual or partial.  It was an immediate and absolute comeuppance. It was like the flip of a switch in the same way my downturn had been the forceful opening of the flood gates.

I looked through the same box of photos with Lily and Jessica later in the day.  I was smiling as I shuffled through them sharing the whos and whens.  We were still listening to the 70s.  Listening and singing along to the old familiar tunes.  

The moral of the story is to never underestimate the power of a good cry or an honest heart to heart with the past.