Life's a party and today is one of those boring parties with bad food. You know the kind, you don't want to go, but you feel obligated out of guilt or pity or some other dismal emotion. You go, your one of a handful of guests, and you end up staying to the bitter end so the host doesn't have to clean up alone. It's all obligation, and no joy. What this party needs is some live music and cupcakes!
Well, today wasn't exactly like that for me, but it illustrates my point. Sometimes the way I spend the hours in my day seem so boring and pointless, all obligation and no joy. Why do I get myself obligated to dull, drudgery? How is it that I am shut off from fun and excitement? I really gotta step it up a bit and start living. Shake this funk that's hanging around my head, step out of the clouds and into the sun.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Box
The box arrived in the usual fashion. The delivery truck barreled down the street, the driver rushed out, rang the door bell, and dropped the box on the stoop with an unceremonious plop, then rushed off to repeat the process all over town at other doorsteps. Some of those packages held birthday presents, books from Amazon, new clothes or replacement cell phones for those accidentally flushed. Some were surprises, and others were expected, and a few, like the cell phones, were eagerly stalked and tracked every step of the way.
My box held none of these things. It was expected, but not with great enthusiasm. In fact when it arrived, it sat and starred at me from the couch for a couple of days before I could open it. I started too, but I just wasn't ready. It was sent with love and contained precious treasure, but no shipping insurance could recover the cost if the items were lost. It was a plain brown, well worn box. It bore the familiar hand writing on the address panel. I have always envied that hand writing. Mine always looks like that of a 2nd grader in comparison. Neat, even, loopy in all the right places - that's my Mom - she's just like her hand writing - neat, even, and loopy in all the right ways.
Mom was the sender of the box, but the items were not directly from her. They were a gift from the past, physical manifestations of memories, tangible reminders of love, a connection to the generation before her that lived, and loved, and is now gone. But not gone, just moved on, or over, off the visible screen, but still here. The items in the box are a physical link to the reality of my grandparents lives. They lived. They had a home, and children, and grandchildren, and all of us are still here, even when they are not. The things they left behind help remind us that our memories are true. They lived in that small house on Picotte Street and filled it with love, elephants, music boxes and old cars. They filled their lives with children grandchildren, and great grandchildren, and now each holds that love in their heart, and a music box, or a cookie jar, or an elephant or some jewelry in their hand..
The things in my box help me to remember, help me to remain connected to where I came from. So long ago we all sat in front of the photographer - Grandma and all the girls - her 4 granddaughters. It was such a fun day. Grandma telling us to stand up straight and make sure our ears didn't stick out. We waited so long for our turn, all the while laughing and joking. That image hung on their wall, our 2 dimensional faces beaming those happy smiles at her every day, while our 3 dimensional smiles were far away. It was us who left first. We went away to school, got married, had babies. She held the memory of us all together close for nearly 3 decades, there on the wall. Now it hangs on my wall, and I see those beaming smiles, and those straight shoulders and feel that love. We are together again in those moments. We have never parted. We are connected.
My box held none of these things. It was expected, but not with great enthusiasm. In fact when it arrived, it sat and starred at me from the couch for a couple of days before I could open it. I started too, but I just wasn't ready. It was sent with love and contained precious treasure, but no shipping insurance could recover the cost if the items were lost. It was a plain brown, well worn box. It bore the familiar hand writing on the address panel. I have always envied that hand writing. Mine always looks like that of a 2nd grader in comparison. Neat, even, loopy in all the right places - that's my Mom - she's just like her hand writing - neat, even, and loopy in all the right ways.
Mom was the sender of the box, but the items were not directly from her. They were a gift from the past, physical manifestations of memories, tangible reminders of love, a connection to the generation before her that lived, and loved, and is now gone. But not gone, just moved on, or over, off the visible screen, but still here. The items in the box are a physical link to the reality of my grandparents lives. They lived. They had a home, and children, and grandchildren, and all of us are still here, even when they are not. The things they left behind help remind us that our memories are true. They lived in that small house on Picotte Street and filled it with love, elephants, music boxes and old cars. They filled their lives with children grandchildren, and great grandchildren, and now each holds that love in their heart, and a music box, or a cookie jar, or an elephant or some jewelry in their hand..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)