chapters
It's Saturday, and a free Saturday at that. One box remains unopened in my bedroom, guarding the foot of my bed, like a wannabe love chest. The cardboard has folds and krinkle lines; the edges and corners have been repeatedly taped over. Markers' scribbles pile one on top of the other, with the latest one saying "M's bedroom/office things". My own handwriting, eight months back, in a different world.
It's a free Saturday, and it's only 11 am. Time to unpack this final box. Most of the pieces on top are protected in bubble plastic. Its translucence reflects my hazy memory of what treasures lie within. Unwrapping each item jolts flashbacks of past times. A carton of a dozen decorated egg shells from Hungary, summer 1990. They are still waiting for their chance to adorn a Christmas tree. Maybe this year. There's the pottery pig toothbrush holder, smiling up cheekily at me for the fifteenth year. The other pottery mugs and jugs date back from the summer Anne and I, inspired by the movie Ghost, signed up for pottery class. Medical days memorabilia, photos of my preceptors and friends from Northern Ontario, of frosty winters and smooth hot chocolate, toboganning and chopping down our own Christmas tree. There's the Quickcam my brother bought for me, which I never used, and now, unusable, since I've switched to a Mac. Presents from fellowship "kids" who went overseas, a reed ship, a miniature plaster house. Friends' wedding tokens, from 1995 and 1997. Photos of large family gatherings, of my pre-teen nephew and nieces when they were chubby babies. Stationery sets I collected, the styles reflecting my taste along the way.
So much memory in a small box. And that is only the first layer...
Have lived and made friends in Hungary, Ghana, Niger, England, Nepal, Canada. Settled in concrete cities, foothills of the Himalayas, lava rocks Subsahara under a canopy of stars and mosquitoes. Have had my eye lashes flash frozen, have jogged in 45 degree heat. Have heard the unbelievably moving cadences of African worship, and the hopping drumbeats of Nepali choruses. Have been adopted by grandmas in Budapest and Dalsingpara. Have heard heart-rending wails of mothers, and the silent screams of malnourished babies.
And these are only the first flashbacks...
Most people have relatively settled lives. Mine seems all over the place. I like it. Each new environment has adventures and lessons awaiting my discovery, awaiting to be transribed into the next chapter of the yet blank pages.
But I'm in the middle of the plot. And in the middle, I cannot see the end. Is there a storyline, a bigger meaning beyond the joys of the moments? Is my having travelled to every continent on the planet leading my life to anywhere valuable? Or will these rare and significant experiences simply disintegrate into their little piles of dust, and be mixed with the rest of the non-descript dust of the world?
Perhaps just as it takes faith to write the chapters, it also takes faith to read them.
It's a free Saturday, and it's only 11 am. Time to unpack this final box. Most of the pieces on top are protected in bubble plastic. Its translucence reflects my hazy memory of what treasures lie within. Unwrapping each item jolts flashbacks of past times. A carton of a dozen decorated egg shells from Hungary, summer 1990. They are still waiting for their chance to adorn a Christmas tree. Maybe this year. There's the pottery pig toothbrush holder, smiling up cheekily at me for the fifteenth year. The other pottery mugs and jugs date back from the summer Anne and I, inspired by the movie Ghost, signed up for pottery class. Medical days memorabilia, photos of my preceptors and friends from Northern Ontario, of frosty winters and smooth hot chocolate, toboganning and chopping down our own Christmas tree. There's the Quickcam my brother bought for me, which I never used, and now, unusable, since I've switched to a Mac. Presents from fellowship "kids" who went overseas, a reed ship, a miniature plaster house. Friends' wedding tokens, from 1995 and 1997. Photos of large family gatherings, of my pre-teen nephew and nieces when they were chubby babies. Stationery sets I collected, the styles reflecting my taste along the way.
So much memory in a small box. And that is only the first layer...
Have lived and made friends in Hungary, Ghana, Niger, England, Nepal, Canada. Settled in concrete cities, foothills of the Himalayas, lava rocks Subsahara under a canopy of stars and mosquitoes. Have had my eye lashes flash frozen, have jogged in 45 degree heat. Have heard the unbelievably moving cadences of African worship, and the hopping drumbeats of Nepali choruses. Have been adopted by grandmas in Budapest and Dalsingpara. Have heard heart-rending wails of mothers, and the silent screams of malnourished babies.
And these are only the first flashbacks...
Most people have relatively settled lives. Mine seems all over the place. I like it. Each new environment has adventures and lessons awaiting my discovery, awaiting to be transribed into the next chapter of the yet blank pages.
But I'm in the middle of the plot. And in the middle, I cannot see the end. Is there a storyline, a bigger meaning beyond the joys of the moments? Is my having travelled to every continent on the planet leading my life to anywhere valuable? Or will these rare and significant experiences simply disintegrate into their little piles of dust, and be mixed with the rest of the non-descript dust of the world?
Perhaps just as it takes faith to write the chapters, it also takes faith to read them.
posted by thmooj at 12:22 PM
2 Comments:
You are making a difference in so many places all over the world - and storing up treasures in heaven.
"...faith to read them." Your insight is very helpful to me. It's somewhat challenging to step out in faith, but for me, even more challenging (read: extremely hard) to look back in faith. Usually as I read what is already written of my life, I am ashamed of the many times of foolishness, misguided ventures, wasted time, sin. I become paralyzed by the attendant feelings of failure, futility and regret. I guess all of my life is meant to be a fragrant offering - and if it's to God, it has to be by faith. It's good to know that faith is not just for the writing but for the reading as well.
Those were the days! Ah, those were the days!
Right, you are a person who pursuits novelty and excitment, a woman of adventure!
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