The town from the past

Now and then I return to the small town where I was born and raised. I barely take note of how it has changed over the years, I muse on the past, along with the people and the circumstances that belong with that past. Mostly I merge with the boy that I once was, the boy that did not really fit in because he was different; he thought differently, spoke differently and had other interests, the boy who did not belong. When I pass the house where I was born and walk through the alley where I grew up I still feel the pain of the rejection that lies behind me though I can talk about it now. It has become a story that I tell my children.

What has remained the same is that I still do not really belong. Not because I am rejected, but because that is how it is. I am a spectator, an artist, a teacher. The more I have worked through the pain of the past, the less I need to judge on good or evil, beauty or ugliness. Along the way I have turned my pain into strength. With mercy I can accept that it is as it is.

What used to be emotions are now stories to tell my children. I see and understand their struggle of life, I see how they repeat the essence of the story of my own life. Fortunately they do not need to comply to expectations like I did. I see their struggle, wordlessly I understand, assist and stand by them. When they have questions I answer them to the best of my ability.

The town of the past has become a memory. It is the town where ‘enemies’ dwelled, where no friend was to be found. It is the town where good and evil resided along with judgement and resentment. The town that held so much in store for the boy, enabling him to discover that love has no preferences.

Now that I am old and have much to look back on I can be thankful without obligations to anyone. ‘Life’ has given me what I needed, or should I say : ‘I have made life into what I needed?’ Both seem true to me.