The Cement Ingot of Guilt

The Cement Ingot of Guilt

I wrote last week about making a house a home and how I had had the privilege of living in no fewer than 8 (eight) rectories.

What is hidden in that swift little sentence is the process of moving. There have been no fewer than 8 moves in my life and more if you count the moves before married life.

Each of those changes involved packing up our goods and chattels, cleaning, polishing, organisation and tossing out what is now redundant. Those are things that we are pretty sure we won’t need in the next chapter. It’s always a risk and some decisions are tougher than others.

That plant that never really flourished over the past 30 years but just might be in a new spot and new soil. That tattered book that was tenderly inscribed by someone I can’t quite remember.

This packing away and chucking out is a very cathartic process. It helps with the whole psychological ‘moving on process’. Leaving behind one place and looking forward to the next.

These are the material, tangible, touchable packable things.

But there are also other things that are hidden, intangible and not so easily discerned. The sweet memory of the conversation that you weren’t expecting to have came as a luscious surprise. The story that Martha told you, that made you raucously laugh out loud. You take these with you and like a good bottle of red ned they sweeten and mature. They can be savoured and relished.

There are other things that are invisible that should be left behind. The regrets. I should have, could have. If only… the missed opportunities that can’t be snatched back and what could have been is now a mirage.

But the very first thing to chuck in the skip is that cement ingot of guilt.