and make the ordinary extraordinary

Ancestral ghosts

A dream brought me to a hidden basement within my home. As we removed the dirt a doorway opened to a dark burnt out tunnel. We crawled through the blackened space that opened to a large bright room full of stuff left from past inhabitants.
And I was thinking, that home, that’s me. And in the basement through those dark corridors is the stuff that’s been left, the ghost and shadows of our ancestors. The things they wanted, the things they didn’t. The lives they lived and the lives they missed. And somehow it’s all focused into this one moment called me.
And at some point we have to look and search through all that stuff and find what works, what must go and what it is we can transform; because not all of it’s good, and not all of it’s bad.
Some of it must go: the critics that advise you’re never enough, or shower you with fear that it’ll all fall apart. It didn’t work for them and it’s not working for us.
There’s those bit that must stay: the love and the pride that is felt throughout time.
And some of it needs change as we recycle it to new: the stuff that just grated but can be jigged back to life.
It’s us and it’s them and it’s dreams and aspirations and tragedy and joy and all those things that constitute a life.
A room, that I never knew, hidden, full of treasures and junk, the stuff that we’ve shared since the beginning of time.   
And now it’s time, my time, to sort it all out. 



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