It has been a while since my last confession. Since then, we have lost our dogs, our home, my father and my grandmother. I'm still waiting for the fist of grief to punch me with all it has in the gut, you know...for that torrential wave of "what the fuck just happened?" to come. The year of 2016 was a year overflowing with loss, for everyone. For myself though, some of it was so painful I'm petrified to explore that cavern, yet some of that deprivation brought enormous relief, like getting rid of poisonous people, people who literally made me sick with their toxic persona's. It's never a bad thing to kick the waste products out of your life. Moving on...
I've started something that I hope will be completed before the end of this year, 2017. It will be the portal into my own magical kingdom of finding the healing my soul so desperately needs. There is so much more I need to let go of that I'm clutching in my angry fists. I'm holding on so tightly that my fingernails have embedded their half-moon curves into the palms of my spongy hands like eerie Joker grins, taking the piss out of me and my inability to just accept that certain inalienable questions will never have answers that make enough sense to comfort my racy mind. I must take steps with purpose towards my own sanity knowing that some apologies will never come, some will be as insincere as the souls they get spat out from and some truths just need a shovel and a tremendously deep grave.
This is how the story of the rest of my life begins...
The last time I saw my Dad, he was an unrecognizable shell of the big soul he was so proud to be; wafer thin with a bulging belly as the cancer was making its final preparations to steal his closing breath from his infected lungs the very next day. It was confusingly painful and difficult for me to see what was once an alive and energetic man so frail, so beaten and used up by this thing that baffles medical professionals into not being able to find a cure. He was being voraciously consumed from the inside and there was not a thing I could do to save him. Nothing. There is nothing quite like that kind of vulnerability.
I had to let him go.
There are words my Dad breathed at me before I had to turn away and let the cancer take him from me, yet it was not so much the words he uttered, but the power in his eyes when he looked at me, those amber flames bearing into my hazel soul looked more alive than they had for so long. He pointed at me with his crooked fingers and spoke directly to my core and when the words were spent, my thoughts caught in my throat and all I could do to respond to him was nod in acknowledgment and bite both my lips together from the inside of my mouth, hard.
Why does it take a child so long to listen to their parents? I never had the most endearing relationship with my father so I suspect anything he said I naturally or subconsciously just rebelled against. He'd been telling me this for so many years and as I sat next to his Hospice bedside, his parental guidance felt more urgent than ever. "Write a book Lezzet, you have a brilliant way with words", is what came out.
It has begun.
How I see it...
I see, speak and write in metaphors because I feel there is much we can learn from nature, people and our surroundings as depicted in my photographs and why I enjoy sharing my thoughts. Not in any attempt to convince or convert you to my way of thinking, seeing or feeling but to share how I see and experience MY mind map of the world. You at no time have to agree, all I ask is that my views and the views of others who wish to express theirs are kindly respected. So relax, get comfy and just enjoy. Happy reading!