The Colours of my Dreams

How my dreams have changed.

The colours used to shine so brightly, so vibrantly. France. A quiet house in the beautiful French countryside. A relaxed way of life. An altogether different culture. Evenings watching the sun go down as my daughters play.

But now…

Now my dreams are grey and russet, and centre on danger. I dream of safety. Of anonymity. Of seclusion and even isolation. I want to run away and escape, and build a life where our walls are thick and our vulnerability is low. I desperately dream of safeguarding my little ones, and so doing at all costs. Of homeschool and protection and the strength in our unit; our hands held tight.

Is it impossible to imagine the life of packing up and starting again? Is it only in films where risk and danger creep forward, and a loving mother packs up her little girls’ belongings in the dead of night, journeys far and into the distance, stumbles across a warm do-gooder with a kindly heart and a spare, unlived-in house, and is able to start again, away from the violence and violation? Is it too far into the process to try to imagine that life?

The quiet little house. The rural setting. Growing our own fruit and vegetables. Leading an organic life. A safe one. A secure one.

And yes, some people might suggest such a life as being too isolated or as lacking in terms of social connections, but, all too often, those people don’t know or understand genuine fear and horror. I really do. And I now prioritise still and peace and tranquillity and calm—perhaps an image of the life I had just in June.

I feel like I am fighting a war. And I am at war with myself, also, in making a decision with what is right and what needs to be done. And also what is legal. I have so many questions. And my priorities have all shuffled and my focus is blurred. I wish I knew so many things. I wish I had a crystal ball.

However, one thing I do know—a valuable lesson I have gleaned from past heartaches and times of struggle—is that things work out as they should. There is always light at the end of the tunnel. I may have to venture down a very rocky, uneven and potentially treacherous path, but ultimately the conclusion will be the right one. And if I stay where I am—in the place we have called Home for two years—is there any way of making it feel more secure, more of a haven, more an escape? Is there anything stopping us from having all of the above, i.e. the organic, more natural, home-grown way of life?

I know what I want, and surely that’s half the battle. Perhaps I need to shine a little more light on this new life we’ve found ourselves leading, and maybe the colour will leap off the page. Maybe the darkness will pass and I’ll find I just need an altogether new perspective and then all will become clear.

Maybe. Life changes shades so so quickly.


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