There is no broken chain

It was bitterly and unseasonally cold in Melbourne this morning – in fact the coldest October day in 15 years or something like that, and I had promised my sister that I’d meet her and go over and close Mum’s bank account.   Mum lived at the back of my sisters place and it still feels funny going over there and not going down to her flat to share a cuppa with her.  As it turned out the bank was shut because of “mechanical problems” so I’ll have to go back in the next couple of weeks to finish the job.

Driving over I got to thinking about Mum again and how in the last few days of her life, how lucky we were to be able to spend them with her.  I held her hand while she slept and we talked about how things were, how we loved each other and were thankful for our shared lives.  We spoke of how proud she was of all of her grand children.   We didn’t talk of regret because there weren’t any.  I realised how important it is to enjoy the moment.  You can’t dwell on things.   And I realised that Mum lives on.

Gentically in us three kids, in her 11 granchildren and the first of her great-grandchildren.   Molecularly in the atoms that made her whose existent goes right back to the begining of time and which now return to recycle yet again.

I think I said in her eulogy that it felt like the chain had broken.  And I’ve come to realise that it hasn’t.  We’ve just moved one more link along it and for most of us our vision of that chain stretches only two or three links in each direction over our lifetimes, but collectively goes on forever.   Our legacy is the chain the links from our distant ancestors to those yet to come.    And that is a mind boggling concept and so every now and then we should learn to take that breath, smell the roses, live in the moment, not fear for what may come nor worry about what has gone before.

With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future.  I live now.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  And today?  Today is a gift.  That’s why we call it the present.  ~Babatunde Olatunji

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Crickets from Journal 1 – 12/07/1984


Reflections 1 – I remember the warm, balmy nights of late spring and summer, and a young boy with skinny legs and baggy shorts listening with wonder to the song of the crickets somewhere beneath the ground. It amazed me that as I approached them attempting to find them beneath leaves or wherever they happened to be hiding, that they would fall silent.

One day I discovered that if I walked very softly I could locate the crickets burrow and with a quick stomp of my foot I could stop the song. This was a great game and the song nearly always began again. One day the grandfather of the girls next door was visiting them. He was obviously watching me creep around the garden stomping on cricket songs but as he was hidden by a screen of shrubs alond the common fence, I did not see him. Suddenly a deep gruff voice yelled at me across the fence.

“Why are you killing those crickets? What have they ever done to you?”

I was ashamed. I didn’t know that stomping on cricket sounds would kill crickets. I didn’t even know what a cricket looked like. From that day on, although the sounds still fascinated me, I tread warily near the cricket burrows and never stomped on one again.

This is for the Friday flashback meme – albeit a week late!

Crickets from Journal 1 – 12/07/1984


Reflections 1 – I remember the warm, balmy nights of late spring and summer, and a young boy with skinny legs and baggy shorts listening with wonder to the song of the crickets somewhere beneath the ground. It amazed me that as I approached them attempting to find them beneath leaves or wherever they happened to be hiding, that they would fall silent.

One day I discovered that if I walked very softly I could locate the crickets burrow and with a quick stomp of my foot I could stop the song. This was a great game and the song nearly always began again. One day the grandfather of the girls next door was visiting them. He was obviously watching me creep around the garden stomping on cricket songs but as he was hidden by a screen of shrubs alond the common fence, I did not see him. Suddenly a deep gruff voice yelled at me across the fence.

“Why are you killing those crickets? What have they ever done to you?”

I was ashamed. I didn’t know that stomping on cricket sounds would kill crickets. I didn’t even know what a cricket looked like. From that day on, although the sounds still fascinated me, I tread warily near the cricket burrows and never stomped on one again.

This is for the Friday flashback meme – albeit a week late!

Crickets from Journal 1 – 12/07/1984


Reflections 1 – I remember the warm, balmy nights of late spring and summer, and a young boy with skinny legs and baggy shorts listening with wonder to the song of the crickets somewhere beneath the ground. It amazed me that as I approached them attempting to find them beneath leaves or wherever they happened to be hiding, that they would fall silent.

One day I discovered that if I walked very softly I could locate the crickets burrow and with a quick stomp of my foot I could stop the song. This was a great game and the song nearly always began again. One day the grandfather of the girls next door was visiting them. He was obviously watching me creep around the garden stomping on cricket songs but as he was hidden by a screen of shrubs alond the common fence, I did not see him. Suddenly a deep gruff voice yelled at me across the fence.

“Why are you killing those crickets? What have they ever done to you?”

I was ashamed. I didn’t know that stomping on cricket sounds would kill crickets. I didn’t even know what a cricket looked like. From that day on, although the sounds still fascinated me, I tread warily near the cricket burrows and never stomped on one again.

This is for the Friday flashback meme – albeit a week late!

Crickets from Journal 1 – 12/07/1984


Reflections 1 – I remember the warm, balmy nights of late spring and summer, and a young boy with skinny legs and baggy shorts listening with wonder to the song of the crickets somewhere beneath the ground. It amazed me that as I approached them attempting to find them beneath leaves or wherever they happened to be hiding, that they would fall silent.

One day I discovered that if I walked very softly I could locate the crickets burrow and with a quick stomp of my foot I could stop the song. This was a great game and the song nearly always began again. One day the grandfather of the girls next door was visiting them. He was obviously watching me creep around the garden stomping on cricket songs but as he was hidden by a screen of shrubs alond the common fence, I did not see him. Suddenly a deep gruff voice yelled at me across the fence.

“Why are you killing those crickets? What have they ever done to you?”

I was ashamed. I didn’t know that stomping on cricket sounds would kill crickets. I didn’t even know what a cricket looked like. From that day on, although the sounds still fascinated me, I tread warily near the cricket burrows and never stomped on one again.

This is for the Friday flashback meme – albeit a week late!