Life, as the iconic character said in "
Summer of '42 ", one of my favourite movies, is full of small comings and goings. It's a quite beautiful story about love, loss, awakening and rediscovery.
It seems that the season is upon me again for more vagabond miles to be added to the total, and once again I am heading off into the wide blue yonder for a while to see what crumbs may fall from richer men's tables.
This summer is different, for reasons which will be clear to those who know me well. I still, mercifully, find no emotional attachment in possessions and whatever I have can be packed on to a half-lorry in less than an hour. Sometimes, it's the waiting to leave which is stressful. Everything that is needful has been done, and time crawls, crablike. I feel like an orchestral player with one small ting or flub in a symphony lasting an hour - I spend my time counting. Time, however, has a stately inevitability about it. The image is of the summer solstice at Stonehenge, the sun surely rises, all we have to do is wait.
I guess an inevitable consequence of being people-oriented is that I am not good at goodbyes. In fact, I loathe them. Madam Sister has perfected the art of simply being absent when such things happen, but my wretched rules keep me from doing the same. I probably need to speak with someone about that. lol
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