It's raining and windy. A top of 15˚C. A miserable day. A day of ugg boots, wood fires and soup. A day to stay inside and get things done.
You may or may not have noticed that I have been quiet for the last few weeks. I would like to say that like on other occasions when I have failed to post a blog I have been extremely busy or recovering from extreme busyness. This however is not the case. There have been attempts at writing. Ideas thought of and discarded. But beyond a few half hearted sentences there has been nothing.
I can't decide whether it's extreme procrastination, a lack of anything real to say or the sneaking realisation that it's almost time to be leaving this place again that has me silenced.
There are so many things that I still want to do. So many things that I have to do. And just over six weeks to get everything done.
Today's task has been to go through a pile of family childhood toys and decide what's mine and what I keep. My mum has faithfully kept lots of our belongings over the years, things from school records to our first teddy bears. As the eldest of four kids my pile quickly outgrew the smaller plastic tub that Mum had set aside. So armed with a larger tub I started sorting through memories.
The 'real' Cabbage Patch Kid doll and all her clothes, some knitted by Grandma, that I got after being bitterly disappointed one Christmas that I got a 'fake' one. I was either four or five that Christmas. I can't quite believe how young I was to be so swayed by advertising and so ungrateful for a homemade version of the product I wanted. The pink elephant that I've never played with but that sat forever on the top of my wardrobe, the one that Dad got me when I was born. The dog called Guzzles that I got for my first birthday from my grandparents that had to make up for the lack of a family dog for me and all my siblings. School projects, a Home Economics sewing project and an Art foam sculpture. A doll whose legs had fallen out because the plastic had become so brittle, dressed in a miniature version of a dance costume I had when I was about four.
I think I managed to cull my pile by half. Some will go to the bin, disfigured by age and love. Some will go to a new home via a Red Cross stall. The others will resign themselves once again to live in a plastic box.
It's six weeks to go. Soon I'll be back. Far away from my stored boxed up memories. Don't think I really need them. But they're there. And in a strange way that's comforting. So I guess I'll keep them a while longer.
Be blessed
bron
