Journey To The Center of My Mind

There are times I set about writing a new post in this blog, only to realize that I have no idea where to start. This is one of those times. I usually start with a title, and decide where it will take me. Up until now, it has served me well as a platform to dive off of. I do find the title "Journey To The Center of My Mind" quite catchy, but I can hardly take the credit for creating it. It was a song title of a modest chart hit from the 1960's (though I can't come up with the tune in my head, nor am I inclined to look up who released it). The title came to me from nowhere, as these things often do. It seemed to fit into my state of mind today, so I decided to run with it. The only problem is that I am running in circles. I had initially wanted to write about a camping trip / sojourn across the Mongolian landscape that I made with a good friend back in 1997. I think I will abandon that for the time being, though. I will more than likely explore that avenue in another post.
 As I mentioned, the title I came up seems to fit into my frame of mind at this time. It reflects my ongoing desire to explore my past and reconcile it with my present. I often think back to my youth, and in the caverns and catacombs of my memories I try to remember what the interior of my childhood home looked like, or the halls of my elementary school. I also conjure up images of a young boy riding his bike down streets and through fields, on a quest to see what was beyond the comfort zone of my street and neighborhood. I realize I have a romanticized version of childhood, but the town I grew up in and the era in which I grew up was pretty ideal. 
I have fond memories of Summer evenings after dinner, playing hide and seek with my brother and the kids on my street. Our parents never worried too much about where we were, because there were far fewer boogeymen to worry about back then. It would only be when it was bath time or bed time when we would be summoned home by our yelling mothers and fathers from our respective front doors. Having grown up in a somewhat large town in Quebec, I was privileged to associate with both English and French kids. We played together, went to school together, and lived harmoniously side by side. 
Unfortunately, as the years progressed, politics ruined all of that. Most of those families, particularly the English ones that I knew so well are long gone - as am I. Truth be told, I haven't gone back there in years, even decades (even though my father still lives about half an hour away). I actually pass by the town on the way to visit him (on the rare occasion that I do), but for some reason I keep driving rather than cutting through to see the old neighborhoods. Actually the reason is that every time I take that side highway by my hometown, there is a voice that rings in my head telling me "You can never really go back". Perhaps my rationale is that I don't want to ruin that ideal version of my youth that I have cultivated over the years. Maybe driving by the old house would trigger other memories that I have buried. 
There definitely were unhappy ones, such as my parents gathering my siblings and I down in our playroom to inform us of their plans to divorce. At eight years old, I really didn't grasp all the implications of it. My sister was only five, and my brother at the age of ten was thrust (unfairly) into the role of the man of the house. There was great confusion in my young brain, as to what it all meant. It had finally sunk in when my father packed up and moved out of our family home to live across town with another woman. My mother was obviously devastated and humiliated, as back in those days, divorce was akin to a scandal. She was vengeful toward my father, though in an extremely passive aggressive sort of way. One might even say that she would go as far as to manipulate situations in order to make my father's new life hell. Actually, I will go on record and say that is exactly what happened. I heard about these things, witnessing and hearing several heated arguments between my father and his second wife, who was the least subtle person I have ever known (especially when drinking). 
I wonder what it would be like, to be able to snap my fingers like Uncle Arthur from "Bewitched", and be able to go back and  view such episodes under some sort of cloak of invisibility. I wouldn't necessarily want to focus too much on the negative moments. I would like to see that young boy riding through the summer breeze on that 3 speed bike. I would like to see the look of euphoria on his face, as he feels the freedom, yet the inherent danger of exploring parts unknown and far from home. I would like to know if that memory of standing out in front of the house on Christmas Eve (probably around the age of three), watching the snow fall gently under the streetlight was true. If so, was it as profound as I believe it to be now? On the negative side, I would also want to witness bits and pieces of the young boy's perspective of his parents' divorce, so I might better grasp what makes him tick as an adult. 
From all accounts I was a really polite boy, eager to please the adults around me. Perhaps digging deeper into it, I think it was because I was aware of my mother's fragile state of mind. I didn't want to add to her pain, having seen her break down a few times. I was also scared that my father would abandon me even further, to the point of disappearing from my life altogether. 
To cap this off, I understand that I am not a psychologist, nor am I seeking therapy of the professional kind. I am constantly trying to understand myself, though. I am aware as I get older that there is a need to rid myself of certain baggage, in order to be a better father and a better husband. This is truly what I want, and what really drives me these days. This is as I said earlier, my catharsis and means to bridge past and present together.