Copyright by WyoJones. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

I was going to write a totally different post today, but Life Happened and I decided I didn’t want to go there. (Had a great picture picked and everything, but it’s already Monday. I think we already know we’re on the skirmish line to a new week.)

Was browsing through the hub’s Flickr page and was caught by the above picture instead. I don’t know why bridges and intriguing roads always capture my attention, but they just do.

I love bridges.

Is it because they beckon one to cross, promise something different on the other side?

Or because they remove barriers to forward movement?

I’m going to go with the second one, because I like the idea of forward movement. It’s not just chickens who go to the other side.

Bridges create connections between places and people.

I know what you’re thinking, the hermit is talking about places.

I like places. I just have a hard time getting there. Lol

And let’s face it, building bridges between people can be harder than a hermit getting on a plane full of people.

As my sister and I have gone through my parents things, what really struck me was how very little I knew them as people. I probably knew my dad a bit more, because he was a born storyteller (I suspect he used his stories a bit like I do—as a way to hide extreme hermit-ness). My mom—well, I was her daughter. She was a stay-at-home mom and if you’d asked me, I’d have said I knew her really well.

She raised me, she shaped me, she scolded me, cried with me, rooted for me.

She was my mom.

But there was this person, this woman inside my mom, who lived most of her life out of my sight.

It shouldn’t be a world-shaking notion. In my own way, I am her. I am that person hidden from the sight of others—even those the closest to me—revealing a piece here to that person, and there to someone else. Wanting to be seen for who and what I really am (and not completely sure what that is even after all these years).

I can remember my mom looking at me with love, wisdom and resignation when she’d tell me, “You don’t understand, but someday you will.”

Today I understand.

Now I’m the one looking back across a…bridge…aware that my mom was right (I wonder if she’s looking over my shoulder right now and thinking, “Finally.” Lol), that no one can understand this side until they cross it for themselves.

All any of us can do is, as we move this this world, is know that there is more to see in everyone we meet, more to know. Even if we never know what that is, know it. Believe it. 

No man is an island, Entire of itself…Any man’s death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.  John Donne

Have you ever had an aha moment of sudden awareness, a sudden clarity where you see someone that changes not just how you view them, but changes you?

I love comments so much that I pick a favorite to receive my monthly AnaBanana gift basket ($25 value).  (And don’t forget that once a quarter I’ll be tossing in something fun from the Perilously Fun Shop!) Recipient is announced the first blog post of the new month.

Perilously yours,


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A Different Post Than I Planned
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10 thoughts on “A Different Post Than I Planned

  • December 5, 2016 at 8:43 pm

    Like you, I didn’t really know my folks. I was closest to my mom, but because of Alzheimer’s we lost her way before she was really gone. My dad shared stories of his youth when Hubs lost his job. Dad talked about how he had to turn in his car that would’ve been repossessed. As he walked home, he vowed never to owe anybody anything they could take away. That was a real insight for me. Hugs.

    • December 5, 2016 at 10:19 pm

      Wow! That is for sure. My dad was child of depression and always very aware of that, too. Thanks for sharing!

  • December 5, 2016 at 7:50 pm

    This is a really lovely post Pauline. Bryan and I were talking about the same thing, how little we knew of your mom and how much we’ve discovered going through letters and emails.

  • December 5, 2016 at 7:03 pm

    I live in my grandparents home where my father grew up. I only knew them as old people but as I cleaned I found trinkets from their youth. The carefully hoarded up valentines effected me the most.

    • December 5, 2016 at 10:17 pm

      Yeah we found all kinds of sweet mementos that told a story. Makes them come alive in different ways.

  • December 5, 2016 at 3:48 pm

    we are a family of storytellers. My mother and father came from the same tiny pit village. Knew everyone. My mother loves to tell her grand and great grand children about the war days . She’s 85 at the end of the month and remembers everything in such rich detail.

    • December 5, 2016 at 5:41 pm

      That is very cool, Julie! My dad used to say that the older he got, the more he remembered the past and the present dimmed. I keep waiting for my memory of the past to get better. I guess I should be glad the present isn’t dim yet, since I am already absent-minded enough. lol

  • December 5, 2016 at 3:08 pm

    This struck a chord. No, I didn’t really ‘know’ my mum, either. I’ve thought often of the very hard life she lived – depression, war, nine kids, emigrating, leaving all her own family behind. But she never talked about that stuff. And you really don’t understand until you’ve got enough experience under your belt.

    Gorgeous picture, BTW.

    • December 5, 2016 at 5:43 pm

      Great compliment coming from a photographer such as yourself (love your photos on Facebook). Yeah, it really is interesting how you can’t really know your mum, and now that I sort of do, it is too late to tell her that. I, of course, am still waiting to hear a “you were right” from my kids. lol Glad the post resonated with you. 🙂

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