Small red, orange and yellow flags are scattered in front yards all along my street. They mark service lines for gas, electricity, cable and internet.
Fibre optic internet is being installed in our neighbourhood, and the markers are necessary to identify the various lines so none are compromised when the new cable is run from the street to the homes.
Someone came to my door and asked me to sign an agreement allowing the service line to be run to our house. I asked a few questions and was given some interesting information.
During the construction of new homes, service providers bury the lines about four feet deep. Over time frost heaves and other conditions move them upwards. Since they are hidden from view no one knows exactly how close to the surface they have become. That is why everything is marked and checked before any further work can be done.
The reason this conversation stuck in my mind had nothing to do with what was happening on our street. Instead, it had everything to do with unpleasant things from my past I attempt to bury and forget.
I thought the pain of these hurts was pushed so far down in my subconscious I’d never have to deal with it again. Sooner or later these issues make their way to the surface.
I attempt to push them back underground again knowing this is only a short term remedy. The markers are there, reminding me of what is just below the surface.
Experience has taught me that feelings buried alive never die. Only when I acknowledge the hurts and truly forgive myself or others, will I be set free.
Instead of markers to be concerned about, I plant the seeds of a bright future and watch expectantly as they bloom.
I put my hand on my husband’s arm to quietly stop him. “Look,” I whispered as I pointed to the yard we were passing by. At the side of the house were a mother duck with ten or twelve fluffy ducklings walking in a line behind her.
A heavily tattooed man walked past. Our topic of conversation changed as one woman told us of an experience she had several years ago.
A friend confessed he’d gotten lost recently. It was a nice day and he decided to walk to an appointment several kilometers away. To avoid busy streets he’d cut through a few neighbourhoods and should be there in twenty to thirty minutes.
Mother’s Day is a bittersweet time for me. Twenty years ago, on Mother’s Day weekend, my mom went to her eternal home. After all these years, I still miss her. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear her voice.
I know complaining doesn’t accomplish anything positive, yet there are times I struggle with this vice. Snow in May qualifies!
It was an interesting discovery. While sorting through a drawer full of papers I came across one that had been tucked away several years ago and forgotten.