My mom had OCD. Growing up could be pure hell if you did not have everything in its designated place. The place of designation was dictated by my mother. If one thing was wrong, the whole house — the whole small neighborhood — would know it.
As an adult I struggle to not follow in those precise footsteps. Organization is good it prevents chaos. It gives you peace of mind that your things your life are in the right place. It shows you the path on what to let go.
I sit here watching the waves of the Atlantic Ocean roll in and out and in and out, it’s rhythm unbroken. This will be one of the last times I sit and watch my favorite ocean. I moved here thinking I would see more of the cool water, hear the earth’s rhythmic sound, and feel the gritty particles of sand between my toes.
In the beginning the ocean had it’s place, right where I wanted it to be, right where I left it. Time ebbed and flowed and before too long I would find it, right where I left it, but sitting with it became a lonely affair and ultimately, I no longer cared to go see if it was in its designated place.
This time, this chapter’s place is in the past. It is time to leave the ocean where I found it and hope that someday if I come to look for it that it’s still where I left it.
The next chapter has no place yet. It is still forming and elusive and I wonder if it’s in its designated place. The next chapter is about to begin.
I wish my mom was here to tell me what the designated place is.