I have been stuck in the past – have both quivered and yearned; have walked forward with many a stumble and many a backwards glance. This was inevitable, is inevitable. We cannot move ahead and entirely erase what lies behind.
It is terribly hard. But the point has come where I say farewell. Farewell to pain which cannot heal if I continue to rip off the scab, worry at it and let it fester. Farewell to hopes which were always forlorn and now lie scattered, like ashes, in the grave of the past. Farewell to the part of my own soul that entertained fantasies never to become reality and wrote an alternative future not on my own time line. Farewell to a life with a foot in both camps, and the sticky mud of the past shortening my steps and causing regular tumbles.
There is, in truth, nothing I can do to alter the past. Other than assimilation, learning and weeping out the poisonous spasms, I can no longer return to the Land of What Has Been. Its gates are closed, its inhabitants ghosts.
I am here now, in Glastonbury, in the present. Nothing from the past can keep its former shape; it, like me, needs to twist and evolve, reshape and regroup in order to create its new present. In some cases, it will revisit my life in very different form, becoming part of the fresh, the startlingly vivid, the new path; in others, no change is possible – or, indeed, desired – and those statues, hewn from rock and unchanging as the landscape from which they originated, can be visited only in dreams and diminishing memories.
It is sad. Primal sadness. Deep-rooted insecurity spreads wings and roars dragon flames to keep me from moving on. It paints pictures far brighter than they were in reality. It lures, tempts, seduces, shows bright images of the past’s glistering hoard.
But no. Staff in hand, I must move ever onward. I cannot change what has been. That lies beyond my remit. I can, however, wrench my foot out from the sticky morass of past emotions and, as the sun gradually dries and lightens that earthy encumbrance, stride on.