Moving day is approaching for this particular author. I already spend part of each winter on Cape Cod, and now I’m moving there permanently. It’s an event that surely opens my heart — the Cape is in many ways my spiritual home — but the activity itself of moving house certainly doesn’t do much for opening the heart!
Or so I thought. But I found that, amid the tension and the pressures inherent in moving, there are truly moments where the heart can be opened, moments of what the nuns at my parochial school would have called grace.
Sifting through papers, I’ve come across old love letters, and sat and re-read them with a smile. A jar on a shelf, overlooked because books had been placed in front of it, yielded beach glass and shells from the two weeks I spent on a writing fellowship at a dune shack, and the warmth and joy of that time flooded back into me again. Drawings made by my stepchildren when they were young; a forgotten geocaching coin; a paystub from the dark ages before I started working for myself.
I encounter bits and pieces of my life like so much flotsam and jetsam as I sift through all the objects one accumulates over time, and I feel that I’m seeing facets of myself, of my past, of the path that led me to where I am now.
Yeah, moving house isn’t the most glamourous of activities. But it does open the heart as it takes one on a journey into one’s past. And that’s not so bad, is it?
Jeannette Cezanne
www.JeannetteCezanne.com
Posted by: Opening the heart — jcezanne
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