The past few years I have come back and forth to that place, where the need between writing and not writing becomes as relevant as the next boxed meal when I am home alone:  it matters but not really… it hurts but it is healing in its own damaging way.

I guess the reason of not writing is the same as why I stopped running every day and going to the gym, and being active, and being healthy as I was for so many years before the last years happened… defined as past by the normal, and hell by me.

The past few years felt like a lifetime, but as every life it had a time and place, and now that the time to bury it has come, I can see the brand new green leaves of my new life… my new beginnings, my present and the only thing that matters.

I am not sure if it was learnt or I was born with this ability I have, but it’s a blessing to be able to live, die and be reborn, and be able to create beautiful new chapters with all the bits and pieces resulting from each explosion and implosion… like the stepping stone I built the other day with all the glass scraps I had plus some other little things.  It’s a blessing to be able to not make the past part of the present and see it for what it was… a time that was and it’s now gone, a time that lost its glory the day the present came.

It’s spring and all is green, and the birds chirp outside and the promise of new life is all over everywhere I go… including the edges of the paths of my heart.  It’s spring and who cares about last winter… all that matters is to weed and make all beautiful so it can be enjoyed, as the pad of grass we sat on yesterday for dinner on the lake.  We were happy, we were there, were didn’t care, and if we did… it didn’t matter… we just made the best of what we had and let the dead bury the dead.

I am back… I am alive, and this song goes to the ones who opened their doors to me, gave me a bed in the most beautiful room, a plate of Vermont cheese and a glass of wine, and a cat to keep me company while walking around the gardens.

Our House

by Crosby, Stills & Nash (And Young) | Our House