My grandmother's cottage and I have always had a rather bizarre relationship. This is partly, I believe, due to my childhood tendency to attribute personalities to otherwise lifeless objects, "humanizing" them, if you will.
At quite a young age, I decided that "Changra-La," as it was christened (the spelling mistake is deliberate, if you're wondering) was an elderly being. I continue to think of it as one who spends their days reflecting on their youth, satisfied with everything that
was to the point where
future, present and past seem to mold together and time becomes less and less as a reality, more and more a memory.
At the age of about fourteen, I started to spend considerably more time at the little lakehouse, growing to appreciate the wonders it held. Wonders, for the most part, from the past. Beaded antique lampshades, Muppet-themed mugs, blankets "borrowed" from army barracks shortly after the war, water-stained paintings of ships sailing through stormy seas... everything was wondrous in my suburban-born-and-raised eyes. All senses were pleased; the sight of white-caps on the lake, the soothing sound of the water against the rocks, the musty smell of the porch curtains, the coolness of the hardwood floors, the taste of my grandmother's remarkable baking... all mixed with the overall air of adventure. It was almost too much for my little heart to take.
Soon I was staying alone, enjoying relative liberty and self-imposed iscolation in all its glory.
To me, the cottage still represents utter freedom. Within its four walls, the unbridled self is let loose, perfectly comfortable doing just about anything (even the potentially bodily-harm-causing). Skinny dipping, late-night wanderings, losing myself in forests, getting stranded on the lake during storms, being chased by the "water police", testing out odd berries... Nothing is really taken seriously, and I revel in the lightness of everything.
My cottage life is dictated by almost primal
needs, which seems selfish (and sometimes is) but since I'm often alone there's not really much else to consider.
Unfortunately, things change upon my return to my parents' house. The sharpness of reality cuts like the knife it is, and everything that seemed so clear, so obvious, gets replaced by conflicting emotions that run rampant in urban environments. Actions that seemed so free and natural in the country become reckless or frivolous upon my return, but the memory of my motives at the time keeps all regrets at bay.
And yet sometimes this transition is not completed. Sometimes ideas fromed in the country have time to solidify. Sometimes, no matter how much I think and think and think, notions formed in my Changra-La fail to be replaced by cold reason. Usually, this is very much a good thing but every once in a while I'm afraid they cause more harm than good.
So there you have it, reflections and blatant honesty from a girl who can barely take herself seriously, nevermind take a train of thought from point A to point B.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks♥