Hoist the Black Sail

The day started out bright and sunny, with a surprisingly bright blue sky for early October, making the many tall brightly yellow sunflowers look very festive and cheerful, and a bit odd, with the musty scent of fallen leaves and wet grass and trees. It was Saturday morning, a day for chores and preparations for autumn and later winter. Ordering firewood, skimming the leaves off the pool and putting on the new cover that was delivered just two days ago to replace the old one that had been patched up one too many times and no longer kept out the dirt and rains. Cleaning out the fallen leaves and debris from the gutters,cleaning out the chimney, trimming the fallen sunflowers, putting away the rest of the lawn and deck chairs and tables. Inside the house, there was the need to take out the window fans, wash them and put them away, get out Halloween decorations for the house and windows and front door, and the usual chores of vacuuming and washing the dog and the bedding, and making beef stew for dinner. I looked around my small, cozy house that always reminds me of an overstuffed,friendly curio shop, and I felt like a proud captain of a small but very secure pirate ship, my pirate ship, that I had secured at great cost. I had no black flag hoisted to my rooftop, but as a black sheep, I sure had managed to survive and thrive in a secure location, now an outlaw from my own family. It felt strangely good this morning, strangely rebellious, and free, a somewhat privileged child from a very comfortable upper middle class family thriving in a working class neighbourhood, isolated but free from interfering relatives and preconceived notions and assumptions about status and happiness and place and purpose. I was free, finally, to be me, to the best of my ability, to write, to create my small tapestries, to run my small household with my steady and resourceful husband and clever son. We were a small island, a small group of pirates, living by our own laws, and as lonesome and unnerving as that sometimes was, I could honestly say this morning that I was happy and found my husband and son to be happy, too. There was no denying that being an outlaw , so to speak, is not without its hardships of judgment and isolation. But once that ship of freedom is on the open seas, so to speak, the feel of the wind and adventure in our hair, the satisfaction of writing your own laws, setting your own course, as awkward and unsavory even at times it may require to be, is thrilling and so well worth the painful break from the prison of compliance. I did not comply, I did not break, and now I am free, to live life on my own terms. I am a rebel at heart and rebels have to fight for their freedom as did I. It made me an outcast, but I don't care, who wants to be part of a group of relatives that judge you by money, as my mother did ? She was ashamed of my small house and my neighbourhood, and made sure no relatives ever made it here to see her disgrace. It makes me laugh now, but there was a time it hurt and made me sad. No more, I am happy to notice, inner freedom is a beautiful thing. I do not like to be controlled, and told what to do, what to think, and breaking free was scary, for sure, but if I walked away with just the clothes on my back, and lost all family loot, I gained a treasure in experience and insight, and those things cannot be bought. As hard as it was to say " fuck you" to everything that had kept me bound and afraid, the pleasure of the freedom it secured me was priceless. The pursuit of happiness sure was well worth the perilous journey. Because for me, security and happiness without freedom are just illusions. Arr!