SUBTLETIES, SHADOWS, AND SHADES...

I've lived in a lot of houses in my time. By the age of twenty-four I was in house number six, which works out at an average of four years per house. Forget averages however - I've only actually stayed in a house for four years on two occasions, the other periods of tenancy ranging from as far apart as one year to eleven years.

Anyone who has read KENNETH GRAHAME's THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS will be familiar with the fifth chapter of the book, entitled DULCE DOMUM, which (roughly translated) means 'home sweet home'. In this episode, MOLE, while out on a ramble with RATTY one Winter's day, picks up the scent of his old home, long forgotten and neglected since he unwittingly abandoned it in pursuit of adventure one fine Spring morning months before.

The chapter
relates how Mole reaquaints himself with all his many familiar possessions and memories which are dear to him, and the value of having such an anchorage - a place to return to - in one's life, no matter how far one may roam in the meantime. As the author puts it: "...it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome."

Funny thing is, I feel like that about nearly every house I've ever lived in. Whenever I'm walking along a street in which I once resided, I almost find myself walking up the path to the front door and unconsciously putting my key in the lock. If I were lost enough in thought, it's no stretch of the imagination to invisage such an event actually happening. (Once, while out walking my dog, I was passing a previous house when she turned in at the stairs as if we still lived there. I almost followed. It's that kind of 'instinct' - or 'force of habit' - that seems to dwell within me also.)

Or, if I'm in a former
neighbourhood and catch sight of one of my old houses lit up at night-time, I can 'see' (almost as if I have X-ray vision) my late father, pipe in mouth, sat in his chair in front of the fire, watching TV or reading his newspaper; I can see my mother sitting darning socks or busying herself in the kitchen with any number of domestic chores, or my brother in our room reading my comics or listening to his records. Furniture, ornaments, wallpaper - everything as it was.

Each house beckons to me, summons me to obey its call to 'come on home', regardless of how many years have elapsed since I actually lived there, almost as if I'd only popped out to the shops or to visit a friend just a short time before - with such clarity that the intervening years since we vacated whichever house seem like only a dream that never actually happened.

Even more bizarre, perhaps, is when I seem to see a younger version of myself beyond the gleam which radiates from behind the curtained windows, engrossed in some book, or seated at the dining-room table, doodling or building an AIRFIX kit. On occasions such as this, it can be disconcerting to suddenly have the moment disrupted by the intrusion of some stranger looking out of the window, or entering or exiting through the front door. 

Then, like Ratty and Mole, the 'winds of reality' catch me on the back of my neck and return me to the present - 'though usually unwillingly and not without some sense of loss. 

The past continually calls to me, but never more so than when I revisit the scenes of my youth, where shades of my younger self and family, and friends long since departed to either the other side of the veil or the globe, still inhabit these enchanted places from so many years ago.

If ghosts do exist, I wouldn't be surprised to find that they aren't only ghosts of the dead, but also of the living from an earlier time. That would perhaps explain why the shadows of yesterday dance forever before me.